SB    7^fi    flM3 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


BERTRAND 
"ACRES  OF  BOOKS" 

633  MAIN  ST. 


William  Sattfflw  JHooUp 


GLOUCESTER  MOORS  AND  OTHER  POEMS. 

THE  FIRE-BRINGER. 

THE  MASQUE  OF  JUDGMENT. 

HOUGHTON   MIFFLIN   COMPANY 

BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 


GLOUCESTER  MOORS 

AND    OTHER   POEMS 


BY 


WILLIAM  VAUGHN  MOODY 


BOSTON    AND    NEW    YORK 

HOUGHTON   MIFFLIN    COMPANY 

tf itersibr  prcs?  £ambriboc 


LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 


COPYRIGHT,  IQOI,  BY  WILLIAM   VAUGHN  MOODY 
ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 


NOTE 

SEVERAL  poems  of  this  collection,  including 
"An  Ode  in  Time  of  Hesitation,"  "The  Brute," 
and  "  On  a  Soldier  Fallen  in  the  Philippines,"  have 
appeared  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly;  "Gloucester 
Moors  "  and  "  Faded  Pictures,"  in  Scribner's  Mag 
azine  ;  and  "  The  Ride  Back,"  under  a  different 
title  in  the  Cbap-Book.  The  author  is  indebted  to 
the  editors  of  these  periodicals  for  leave  to  reprint. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

GLOUCESTER    MOORS                 .             .             .  .           * 

GOOD    FRIDAY    NIGHT       .             .             .             .  5 

ROAD-HYMN    FOR    THE    START      .             .  .           9 

AN    ODE    IN    TIME    OF    HESITATION                 .  12 

THE    QUARRY    .              .             .             .             .  .         22 

ON     A     SOLDIER     FALLEN      IN      THE      PHILIP 
PINES   .              .             .             ...  24 

UNTIL    THE    TROUBLING    OF    THE    WATERS  .        26 

JETSAM            ......  39 

THE    BRUTE        .             .             ...  .         49 

THE  MENAGERIE  .....  55 

THE  GOLDEN  JOURNEY      .         .         ,  .62 

HEART'S  WILD-FLOWER           .         .      "  *•  '  •       65 

HARMONICS      .         .         .         .         .  .      67 

ON  THE  RIVER     .         ...         .  68 

THE  BRACELET  OF  GRASS  70 

THE  DEPARTURE            ....  72 

FADED  PICTURES       .         .         .         .  .74 

A  GREY  DAY        .....  75 

THE  RIDE  BACK       .         .         .         .  .      76 


vi  CONTENTS 

SONG-FLOWER    AND    POPPY        ...  80 

I.  IN    NEW    YORK 

II.  AT    ASSISI 

HOW    THE    MEAD-SLAVE    WAS   SET    FREE  .     '    86 

A    DIALOGUE    IN    PURGATORY  .  .  .  89 

THE    DAGUERREOTYPE          .  .  .  .98 


POEMS 


GLOUCESTER  MOORS 

A  MILE  behind  is  Gloucester  town 
Where  the  fishing  fleets  put  in, 
A  mile  ahead  the  land  dips  down 
And  the  woods  and  farms  begin. 
Here,  where  the  moors  stretch  free 
In  the  high  blue  afternoon, 
Are  the  marching  sun  and  talking  sea, 
And  the  racing  winds  that  wheel  and  flee 
On  the  flying  heels  of  June. 

Jill-o'er-the-ground  is  purple  blue, 

Blue  is  the  quaker-maid, 

The  wild  geranium  holds  its  dew 

Long  in  the  boulder's  shade. 

Wax-red  hangs  the  cup 

From  the  huckleberry  boughs, 

In  barberry  bells  the  grey  moths  sup, 

Or  where  the  choke-cherry  lifts  high  up 

Sweet  bowls  for  their  carouse. 

Over  the  shelf  of  the  sandy  cove 
Beach-peas  blossom  late. 


GLOUCESTER   MOORS 

By  copse  and  cliff  the  swallows  rove 

Each  calling  to  his  mate. 

Seaward  the  sea-gulls  go, 

And  the  land-birds  all  are  here; 

That  green-gold  flash  was  a  vireo, 

And  yonder  flame  where  the  marsh-flags  grow 

Was  a  scarlet  tanager. 

This  earth  is  not  the  steadfast  place 
We  landsmen  build  upon  ; 
From  deep  to  deep  she  varies  pace, 
And  while  she  comes  is  gone. 
Beneath  my  feet  I  feel 
Her  smooth  bulk  heave  and  dip; 
With  velvet  plunge  and  soft  upreel 
She  swings  and  steadies  to  her  keel 
Like  a  gallant,  gallant  ship. 

These  summer  clouds  she  sets  for  sail, 
The  sun  is  her  masthead  light, 
She  tows  the  moon  like  a  pinnace  frail 
Where  her  phosphor  wake  churns  bright. 
Now  hid,  now  looming  clear, 
On  the  face  of  the  dangerous  blue 
The  star  fleets  tack  and  wheel  and  veer, 
But  on,  but  on  does  the  old  earth  steer 
As  if  her  port  she  knew. 


GLOUCESTER   MOORS  3 

God,  dear  God !    Does  she  know  her  port, 

Though  she  goes  so  far  about  ? 

Or  blind  astray,  does  she  make  her  sport 

To  brazen  and  chance  it  out  ? 

I  watched  when  her  captains  passed : 

She  were  better  captainless. 

Men  in  the  cabin,  before  the  mast, 

But  some  were  reckless  and  some  aghast, 

And  some  sat  gorged  at  mess. 

By  her  battened  hatch  I  leaned  and  caught 

Sounds  from  the  noisome  hold,  — 

Cursing  and  sighing  of  souls  distraught 

And  cries  too  sad  to  be  told. 

Then  I  strove  to  go  down  and  see ; 

But  they  said,  "  Thou  art  not  of  us  !  " 

I  turned  to  those  on  the  deck  with  me 

And  cried,  "  Give  help  !  "   But  they  said,  "  Let 

be: 
Our  ship  sails  faster  thus." 

Jill-o'er-the-ground  is  purple  blue, 

Blue  is  the  quaker-maid, 

The  alder-clump  where  the  brook  comes  through 

Breeds  cresses  in  its  shade. 

To  be  out  of  the  moiling  street 

With  its  swelter  and  its  sin ! 


4  GLOUCESTER   MOORS 

Who  has  given  to  me  this  sweet, 
And  given  my  brother  dust  to  eat  ? 
And  when  will  his  wage  come  in  ? 

Scattering  wide  or  blown  in  ranks, 
Yellow  and  white  and  brown, 
Boats  and  boats  from  the  fishing  banks 
Come  home  to  Gloucester  town. 
There  is  cash  to  purse  and  spend, 
There  are  wives  to  be  embraced, 
Hearts  to  borrow  and  hearts  to  lend, 
And  hearts  to  take  and  keep  to  the  end, 
O  little  sails,  make  haste  ! 

But  thou,  vast  outbound  ship  of  souls, 
What  harbor  town  for  thee  ? 
What  shapes,  when  thy  arriving  tolls, 
Shall  crowd  the  banks  to  see  ? 
Shall  all  the  happy  shipmates  then 
Stand  singing  brotherly? 
Or  shall  a  haggard  ruthless  few 
Warp  her  over  and  bring  her  to, 
While  the  many  broken  souls  of  men 
Fester  down  in  the  slaver's  pen, 
And  nothing  to  say  or  do  ? 


GOOD   FRIDAY  NIGHT 

AT  last  the  bird  that  sang  so  long 
In  twilight  circles,  hushed  his  song : 
Above  the  ancient  square 
The  stars  came  here  and  there. 

Good  Friday  night !    Some  hearts  were  bowed. 
But  some  amid  the  waiting  crowd 
Because  of  too  much  youth 
Felt  not  that  mystic  ruth ; 

And  of  these  hearts  my  heart  was  one : 
Nor  when  beneath  the  arch  of  stone 
With  dirge  and  candle  flame 
The  cross  of  passion  came, 

Did  my  glad  spirit  feel  reproof, 
Though  on  the  awful  tree  aloof, 
Unspiritual,  dead, 
Drooped  the  ensanguined  Head. 

To  one  who  stood  where  myrtles  made 
A  little  space  of  deeper  shade 


6  GOOD   FRIDAY   NIGHT 

(As  I  could  half  descry, 
A  stranger,  even  as  I), 

I  said,  "  These  youths  who  bear  along 
The  symbols  of  their  Saviour's  wrong, 
The  spear,  the  garment  torn, 
The  flaggel,  and  the  thorn, — 

"  Why  do  they  make  this  mummery  ? 
Would  not  a  brave  man  gladly  die 
For  a  much  smaller  thing 
Than  to  be  Christ  and  king  ?  " 

He  answered  nothing,  and  I  turned. 
Throned  in  its  hundred  candles  burned 
The  jeweled  eidolon 
Of  her  who  bore  the  Son. 

The  crowd  was  prostrate ;  still,  I  felt 
No  shame  until  the  stranger  knelt; 
Then  not  to  kneel,  almost 
Seemed  like  a  vulgar  boast. 

I  knelt.     The  doll-face,  waxen  white, 
Flowered  out  a  living  dimness  ;  bright 
Dawned  the  dear  mortal  grace 
Of  my  own  mother's  face. 


GOOD    FRIDAY   NIGHT 

When  we  were  risen  up,  the  street 
Was  vacant ;  all  the  air  hung  sweet 
With  lemon-flowers  ;  and  soon 
The  sky  would  hold  the  moon. 

More  silently  than  new-found  friends 
To  whom  much  silence  makes  amends 
For  the  much  babble  vain 
While  yet  their  lives  were  twain, 

We  walked  along  the  odorous  hill. 
The  light  was  little  yet ;  his  will 
I  could  not  see  to  trace 
Upon  his  form  or  face. 

So  when  aloft  the  gold  moon  broke, 
I  cried,  heart-stung.     As  one  who  woke 
He  turned  unto  my  cries 
The  anguish  of  his  eyes. 

"  Friend  !  Master  !  "   I  cried  falteringly, 
"  Thou  seest  the  thing  they  make  of  thee. 

Oh,  by  the  light  divine 

My  mother  shares  with  thine, 

"  I  beg  that  I  may  lay  my  head 
Upon  thy  shoulder  and  be  fed 


GOOD   FRIDAY   NIGHT 

With  thoughts  of  brotherhood  !  " 
So  through  the  odorous  wood, 

More  silently  than  friends  new-found 
We  walked.     At  the  first  meadow  bound 
His  figure  ashen-stoled 
Sank  in  the  moon's  broad  gold. 


ROAD-HYMN   FOR   THE   START 

LEAVE  the  early  bells  at  chime, 
Leave  the  kindled  hearth  to  blaze, 
Leave  the   trellised  panes  where  children  linger 

out  the  waking-time, 
Leave  the  forms   of   sons   and   fathers  trudging 

through  the  misty  ways, 

Leave  the  sounds  of  mothers  taking  up  their  sweet 
laborious  days. 

Pass  them  by  !  even  while  our  soul 
Yearns  to  them  with  keen  distress. 
Unto  them  a  part  is  given ;  we  will  strive  to  see 

the  whole. 

Dear  shall  be  the  banquet  table  where  their  sing 
ing  spirits  press  ; 

Dearer  be  our  sacred   hunger,   and   our  pilgrim 
loneliness. 

We  have  felt  the  ancient  swaying 
Of  the  earth  before  the  sun, 
On  the  darkened  marge  of  midnight  heard  sidereal 
rivers  playing; 


io       ROAD-HYMN   FOR   THE   START 

Rash  it  was  to  bathe  our  souls  there,  but  we 
plunged  and  all  was  done. 

That  is  lives  and  lives  behind  us  —  lo,  our  jour 
ney  is  begun ! 

Careless  where  our  face  is  set, 
Let  us  take  the  open  way. 

What  we  are  no  tongue  has   told   us  :   Errand- 
goers  who  forget  ? 
Soldiers  heedless  of  their  harry  ?     Pilgrim  people 

gone  astray? 

We  have  heard  a  voice  cry  "  Wander  !  "  That 
was  all  we  heard  it  say. 

Ask  no  more :  't  is  much,  't  is  much  ! 
Down  the  road  the  day-star  calls  ; 
Touched  with  change  in  the  wide  heavens,  like  a 

leaf  the  frost  winds  touch, 
Flames  the  failing  moon  a  moment,  ere  it  shrivels 

white  and  falls  ; 

Hid  aloft,  a  wild  throat  holdeth  sweet  and  sweeter 
intervals. 

Leave  him  still  to  ease  in  song 
Half  his  little  heart's  unrest : 
Speech  is  his,  but  we  may  journey  toward  the  life 
for  which  we  long. 


ROAD-HYMN    FOR   THE   START        n 

God,  who  gives  the  bird  its  anguish,  maketh  no 
thing  manifest, 

But  upon  our  lifted  foreheads  pours  the  boon  of 
endless  quest, 


AN   ODE   IN   TIME   OF    HESITATION 

(After  seeing  at  Boston  the  statue  of  Robert  Gould 
Shaw,  killed  while  storming  Fort  Wagner,  July  18, 
1863,  at  the  head  of  the  first  enlisted  negro  regiment, 
the  54th  Massachusetts.) 

I 

BEFORE  the  solemn  bronze  Saint  Gaudens  made 

To  thrill  the  heedless  passer's  heart  with  awe, 

And  set  here  in  the  city's  talk  and  trade 

To  the  good  memory  of  Robert  Shaw, 

This  bright  March  morn  I  stand, 

And  hear  the  distant  spring  come  up  the  land ; 

Knowing  that  what  I  hear  is  not  unheard 

Of  this  boy  soldier  and  his  negro  band, 

For  all  their  gaze  is  fixed  so  stern  ahead, 

For  all  the  fatal  rhythm  of  their  tread. 

The  land  they  died  to  save  from  death  and  shame 

Trembles   and  waits,  hearing  the   spring's  great 

name, 
And  by  her  pangs  these  resolute  ghosts  are  stirred. 

ii 

Through  street  and  mall  the  tides  of  people  go 
Heedless;  the  trees  upon  the  Common  show 


AN    ODE   IN  TIME    OF   HESITATION   13 

No  hint  of  green ;  but  to  my  listening  heart 

The  still  earth  doth  impart 

Assurance  of  her  jubilant  emprise, 

And  it  is  clear  to  my  long-searching  eyes 

That  love  at  last  has  might  upon  the  skies. 

The  ice  is  runneled  on  the  little  pond ; 

A  telltale  patter  drips  from  off  the  trees ; 

The  air  is  touched  with  southland  spiceries, 

As  if  but  yesterday  it  tossed  the  frond 

Of  pendent  mosses  where  the  live-oaks  grow 

Beyond  Virginia  and  the  Carolines, 

Or  had  its  will  among  the  fruits  and  vines 

Of  aromatic  isles  asleep  beyond 

Florida  and  the  Gulf  of  Mexico. 

in 

Soon  shall  the  Cape  Ann  children  shout  in  glee, 

Spying  the  arbutus,  spring's  dear  recluse; 

Hill  lads  at  dawn  shall  hearken  the  wild  goose 

Go  honking  northward  over  Tennessee ; 

West  from  Oswego  to  Sault  Sainte-Marie, 

And  on  to  where  the  Pictured  Rocks  are  hung, 

And  yonder  where,  gigantic,  willful,  young, 

Chicago  sitteth  at  the  northwest  gates, 

With  restless  violent  hands  and  casual  tongue 

Moulding  her  mighty  fates, 

The  Lakes  shall  robe  them  in  ethereal  sheen ; 


1 4  AN   ODE   IN   TIME  OF   HESITATION 

And  like  a  larger  sea,  the  vital  green 
Of  springing  wheat  shall  vastly  be  outflung 
Over  Dakota  and  the  prairie  states. 
By  desert  people  immemorial 
On  Arizonan  mesas  shall  be  done 
Dim  rites  unto  the  thunder  and  the  sun; 
Nor  shall  the  primal  gods  lack  sacrifice 
More  splendid,  when  the  white  Sierras  call 
Unto  the  Rockies  straightway  to  arise 
And  dance  before  the  unveiled  ark  of  the  year, 
Sounding  their  windy  cedars  as  for  shawms, 
Unrolling  rivers  clear 
For  flutter  of  broad  phylacteries  ; 
While  Shasta  signals  to  Alaskan  seas 
That  watch  old  sluggish  glaciers  downward  creep 
To  fling  their  icebergs  thundering  from  the  steep, 
And  Mariposa  through  the  purple  calms 
Gazes  at  far  Hawaii  crowned  with  palms 
Where  East  and  West  are  met,  — 
A  rich  seal  on  the  ocean's  bosom  set 
To  say  that  East  and  West  are  twain, 
With  different  loss  and  gain  : 
The  Lord  hath  sundered  them ;  let  them  be  sun 
dered  yet. 

IV 

Alas  !  what  sounds  are  these  that  come 
Sullenly  over  the  Pacific  seas,  — 


AN    ODE   IN  TIME   OF   HESITATION   15 

Sounds  of  ignoble  battle,  striking  dumb 

The  season's  half-awakened  ecstasies  ? 

Must  I  be  humble,  then, 

Now  when  my  heart  hath  need  of  pride  ? 

Wild  love  falls  on  me  from  these  sculptured  men  ; 

By  loving  much  the  land  for  which  they  died 

I  would  be  justified. 

My  spirit  was  away  on  pinions  wide 

To  soothe  in  praise  of  her  its  passionate  mood 

And  ease  it  of  its  ache  of  gratitude. 

Too  sorely  heavy  is  the  debt  they  lay 

On  me  and  the  companions  of  my  day. 

I  would  remember  now 

My  country's  goodliness,  make  sweet  her  name. 

Alas  !  what  shade  art  thou 

Of  sorrow  or  of  blame 

Liftest  the  lyric  leafage  from  her  brow, 

And  pointest  a  slow  finger  at  her  shame  ? 


Lies  !  lies  !     It  cannot  be  !     The  wars  we  wage 

Are  noble,  and  our  battles  still  are  won 

By  justice  for  us,  ere  we  lift  the  gage. 

We  have  not  sold  our  loftiest  heritage. 

The  proud  republic  hath  not  stooped  to  cheat 

And  scramble  in  the  market-place  of  war ; 

Her  forehead  weareth  yet  its  solemn  star. 


1 6  AN   ODE   IN   TIME  OF   HESITATION 

Here  is  her  witness :  this,  her  perfect  son, 
This  delicate  and  proud  New  England  soul 
Who   leads   despised  men,  with  just-unshackled 

feet, 

Up  the  large  ways  where  death  and  glory  meet, 
To  show  all  peoples  that  our  shame  is  done, 
That  once  more  we  are  clean  and  spirit-whole. 

VI 

Crouched  in  the  sea  fog  on  the  moaning  sand 

All  night  he  lay,  speaking  some  simple  word 

From  hour  to  hour  to  the  slow  minds  that  heard, 

Holding  each  poor  life  gently  in  his  hand 

And  breathing  on  the  base  rejected  clay 

Till  each  dark  face  shone  mystical  and  grand 

Against  the  breaking  day  j 

And  lo,  the  shard  the  potter  cast  away 

Was  grown  a  fiery  chalice  crystal-fine 

Fulfilled  of  the  divine 

Great  wine  of  battle  wrath  by  God's  ring-finger 

stirred. 

Then  upward,  where  the  shadowy  bastion  loomed 
Huge  on  the  mountain  in  the  wet  sea  light, 
Whence  now,  and  now,  infernal  flowerage  bloomed, 
Bloomed,  burst,   and  scattered   down   its  deadly 

seed, — 
They  swept,  and  died  like  freemen  on  the  height, 


AN   ODE   IN   TIME  OF   HESITATION  17 

Like  freemen,  and  like  men  of  noble  breed ; 

And  when  the  battle  fell  away  at  night 

By  hasty  and  contemptuous  hands  were  thrust 

Obscurely  in  a  common  grave  with  him 

The  fair-haired  keeper  of  their  love  and  trust. 

Now  limb  doth  mingle  with  dissolved  limb 

In  nature's  busy  old  democracy 

To  flush  the  mountain  laurel  when  she  blows 

Sweet  by  the  southern  sea, 

And   heart  with    crumbled  heart    climbs   in    the 

rose  :  — 

The  untaught  hearts  with  the  high  heart  that  knew 
This  mountain  fortress  for  no  earthly  hold 
Of  temporal  quarrel,  but  the  bastion  old 
Of  spiritual  wrong, 

Built  by  an  unjust  nation  sheer  and  strong, 
Expugnable  but  by  a  nation's  rue 
And  bowing  down  before  that  equal  shrine 
By  all  men  held  divine, 
Whereof  his  band  and  he  were  the  most  holy  sign, 

VII 

O  bitter,  bitter  shade  ! 

Wilt  thou  not  put  the  scorn 

And  instant  tragic  question  from  thine  eyes? 

Do  thy  dark  brows  yet  crave 

That  swift  and  angry  stave  — 


1 8  AN    ODE   IN   TIME  OF   HESITATION 

Unmeet  for  this  desirous  morn  — 
That  I  have  striven,  striven  to  evade  ? 
Gazing  on  him,  must  I  not  deem  they  err 
Whose  careless  lips  in  street  and  shop  aver 
As  common  tidings,  deeds  to  make  his  cheek 
Flush   from  the  bronze,  and  his  dead  throat  to 

speak  ? 

Surely  some  elder  singer  would  arise, 
Whose  harp  hath  leave  to  threaten  and  to  mourn 
Above  this  people  when  they  go  astray. 
Is  Whitman,  the  strong  spirit,  overworn  ? 
Has  Whittier  put  his  yearning  wrath  away  ? 
I  will  not  and  I  dare  not  yet  believe ! 
Though  furtively  the  sunlight  seems  to  grieve, 
And  the  spring-laden  breeze 
Out  of  the  gladdening  west  is  sinister 
With  sounds  of  nameless  battle  overseas; 
Though  when  we  turn  and  question  in  suspense 
If  these  things  be  indeed  after  these  ways, 
And  what  things  are  to  follow  after  these, 
Our  fluent  men  of  place  and  consequence 
Fumble  and  fill  their  mouths  with  hollow  phrase, 
Or  for  the  end-all  of  deep  arguments 
Intone  their  dull  commercial  liturgies  — 
I  dare  not  yet  believe  !     My  ears  are  shut ! 
I  will  not  hear  the  thin  satiric  praise 
And  muffled  laughter  of  our  enemies, 


AN   ODE   IN   TIME   OF  HESITATION   19 

Bidding  us  never  sheathe  our  valiant  sword 
Till  we  have  changed  our  birthright  for  a  gourd 
Of  wild  pulse  stolen  from  a  barbarian's  hut ; 
Showing  how  wise  it  is  to  cast  away 
The  symbols  of  our  spiritual  sway, 
That  so  our  hands  with  better  ease 
May  wield  the  driver's  whip  and  grasp  the  jailer's 
keys. 

VIII 

Was  it  for  this  our  fathers  kept  the  law  ? 

This  crown  shall  crown  their  struggle  and  their 

ruth  ? 

Are  we  the  eagle  nation  Milton  saw 
Mewing  its  mighty  youth, 
Soon  to  possess  the  mountain  winds  of  truth, 
And  be  a  swift  familiar  of  the  sun 
Where  aye  before  God's  face  his  trumpets  run  ? 
Or  have  we  but  the  talons  and  the  maw, 
And  for  the  abject  likeness  of  our  heart 
Shall  some  less  lordly  bird  be  set  apart  ?  — 
Some  gross-billed  wader  where  the  swamps   arc 

fat? 
Some  gorger  in  the  sun  ?    Some  prowler  with  the 

bat? 

IX 

Ah  no! 

We  have  not  fallen  so. 


20  AN    ODE   IN   TIME   OF   HESITATION 

We  are  our  fathers'  sons:  let  those  who  lead  us 
know! 

'T  was  only  yesterday  sick  Cuba's  cry 

Came  up  the  tropic  wind,  "  Now  help  us,  for  we 
die  !  " 

Then  Alabama  heard, 

And  rising,  pale,  to  Maine  and  Idaho 

Shouted  a  burning  word. 

Proud  state  with  proud  impassioned  state  con 
ferred, 

And  at  the  lifting  of  a  hand  sprang  forth, 

East,  west,  and  south,  and  north, 

Beautiful  armies.  Oh,  by  the  sweet  blood  and 
young 

Shed  on  the  awful  hill  slope  at  San  Juan, 

By  the  unforgotten  names  of  eager  boys 

Who  might  have  tasted  girls'  love  and  been 
stung 

With  the  old  mystic  joys 

And  starry  griefs,  now  the  spring  nights  come  onv 

But  that  the  heart  of  youth  is  generous,  — 

We  charge  you,  ye  who  lead  us, 

Breathe  on  their  chivalry  no  hint  of  stain ! 

Turn  not  their  new-world  victories  to  gain  ! 

One  least  leaf  plucked  for  chaffer  from  the  bays 

Of  their  dear  praise, 

One  jot  of  their  pure  conquest  put  to  hire, 

The  implacable  republic  will  require ; 


AN   ODE   IN  TIME  OF  HESITATION  21 

With  clamor,  in  the  glare  and  gaze  of  noon, 
Or  subtly,  coming  as  a  thief  at  night, 
But  surely,  very  surely,  slow  or  soon 
That  insult  deep  we  deeply  will  requite. 
Tempt  not  our  weakness,  our  cupidity  ! 
For  save  we  let  the  island  men  go  free, 
Those  baffled  and  dislaureled  ghosts 
Will  curse  us  from  the  lamentable  coasts 
Where  walk  the  frustrate  dead. 
The  cup  of  trembling  shall  be  drained  quite, 
Eaten  the  sour  bread  of  astonishment, 
With  ashes  of  the  hearth  shall  be  made  white 
Our  hair,  and  wailing  shall  be  in  the  tent; 
Then  on  your  guiltier  head 
Shall  our  intolerable  self-disdain 
Wreak  suddenly  its  anger  and  its  pain; 
For  manifest  in  that  disastrous  light 
We  shall  discern  the  right 
And  do  it,  tardily.  —  O  ye  who  lead, 
Take  heed! 

Blindness  we  may  forgive,  but  baseness  we  will 
smite. 

1900. 


THE   QUARRY 

BETWEEN  the  rice  swamps  and  the  fields  of  tea 
I  met  a  sacred  elephant,  snow-white. 
Upon  his  back  a  huge  pagoda  towered 
Full  of  brass  gods  and  food  of  sacrifice. 
Upon  his  forehead  sat  a  golden  throne, 
The  massy  metal  twisted  into  shapes 
Grotesque,  antediluvian,  such  as  move 
In  myth  or  have  their  broken  images 
Sealed  in  the  stony  middle  of  the  hills. 
A  peacock  spread  his  thousand  dyes  to  screen 
The  yellow  sunlight  from  the  head  of  one 
Who  sat  upon  the  throne,  clad  stifF  with  gems, 
Heirlooms  of  dynasties  of  buried  kings,  — 
Himself  the  likeness  of  a  buried  king, 
With  frozen  gesture  and  unfocused  eyes. 
The  trappings  of  the  beast  were  over-scrawled 
With  broideries  —  sea-shapes  and  flying  things, 
Fan-trees  and  dwarfed  nodosities  of  pine, 
Mixed  with  old  alphabets,  and  faded  lore 
Fallen  from  ecstatic  mouths  before  the  Hood, 
Or  gathered  by  the  daughters  when  they  walked 
Eastward  in  Eden  with  the  Sons  of  God 
Whom  love  and  the  deep  moon  made  garrulous. 


THE    QUARRY  23 

Between  the  carven  tusks  his  trunk  hung  dead ; 

Blind  as  the  eyes  of  pearl  in  Buddha's  brow 

His  beaded  eyes  stared  thwart  upon  the  road  ; 

And  feebler  than  the  doting  knees  of  eld, 

His  joints,  of  size  to  swing  the  builder's  crane 

Across  the  war-walls  of  the  Anakim, 

Made  vain  and  shaken  haste.     Good  need  was 

his 

To  hasten  :  panting,  foaming,  on  the  slot 
Came  many  brutes  of  prey,  their  several  hates 
Laid  by  until  the  sharing  of  the  spoil. 
Just  as  they  gathered  stomach  for  the  leap, 
The  sun  was  darkened,  and  wide-balanced  wings 
Beat  downward  on  the  trade-wind  from  the  sea. 
A  wheel  of  shadow  sped  along  the  fields 
And  o'er  the  dreaming  cities.     Suddenly 
My  heart  misgave  me,  and  I  cried  aloud, 
u  Alas  !    What  dost  thou  here  ?     What  dost  thou 

here  ? " 

The  great  beasts  and  the  little  halted  sharp, 
Eyed  the  grand  circler,  doubting  his  intent. 
Straightway  the  wind  flawed  and  he  came  about, 
Stooping  to  take  the  vanward  of  the  pack; 
Then  turned,  between  the  chasers  and  the  chased, 
Crying  a  word  I  could  not  understand,  — 
But  stiller-tongued,  with  eyes  somewhat  askance, 
They  settled  to  the  slot  and  disappeared. 
1900. 


ON  A   SOLDIER  FALLEN   IN  THE 
PHILIPPINES 

STREETS  of  the  roaring  town, 

Hush  for  him,  hush,  be  still  ! 

He  comes,  who  was  stricken  down 

Doing  the  word  of  our  will. 

Hush  !     Let  him  have  his  state, 

Give  him  his  soldier's  crown. 

The  grists  of  trade  can  wait 

Their  grinding  at  the  mill, 

But  he  cannot  wait  for  his  honor,  now  the  trum 
pet  has  been  blown. 

Wreathe  pride  now  for  his  granite  brow,  lay  love 
on  his  breast  of  stone. 

Toll !     Let  the  great  bells  toll 
Till  the  clashing  air  is  dim. 
Did  we  wrong  this  parted  soul  ? 
We  will  make  it  up  to  him. 
Toll !     Let  him  never  guess 
What  work  we  set  him  to. 
Laurel,  laurel,  yes ; 
He  did  what  we  bade  him  do. 


SOLDIER  FALLEN  IN  THE  PHILIPPINES    25 

Praise,  and  never  a  whispered  hint  but  the  fight 

he  fought  was  good  ; 
Never  a  word  that  the  blood  on  his  sword  was 

his  country's  own  heart's-blood. 

A  flag  for  the  soldier's  bier 
Who  dies  that  his  land  may  live; 
O,  banners,  banners  here, 
That  he  doubt  not  nor  misgive  ! 
That  he  heed  not  from  the  tomb 
The  evil  days  draw  near 
When  the  nation,  robed  in  gloom, 
With  its  faithless  past  shall  strive. 

Let   him   never  dream   that   his  bullet's    scream 
went  wide  of  its  island  mark, 

Home  to  the  heart  of  his  darling  land  where  she 
stumbled  and  sinned  in  the  dark. 


UNTIL    THE    TROUBLING    OF    THE 
WATERS 

Two  hours,  two  hours  :  God  give  me  strength 

for  it ! 

He  who  has  given  so  much  strength  to  me 
And  nothing  to  my  child,  must  give  to-day 
What  more  I  need  to  try  and  save  my  child 
And  get  for  him  the  life  I  owe  to  him. 
To  think  that  I  may  get  it  for  him  now, 
Before    he    knows    how    much   he   might    have 

missed 

That  other  boys  have  got !    The  bitterest  thought 
Of  all  that  plagued  me  when  he  _ame  was  this, 
How  some  day  he  would  see  the  difference, 
And  drag  himself  to  me  with  puzzled  eyes 
To  ask  me  why  it  was.      He  would  have  been 
Cruel  enough  to  do  it,  knowing  not 
That  was  the  question  my  rebellious  heart 
Cried  over  and  over  one  whole  year  to  God, 
And  got  no  answer  and  no  help  at  all. 
If  he  had  asked  me,  what  could  I  have  said  ? 
What  single  word  could  I  have  found  to  say 
To  hide  me  from  his  searching,  puzzled  gaze  ? 


TROUBLING   OF   THE   WATERS       27 

Some  coward  thing  at  best,  never  the  truth ; 
The  truth  I  never  could  have  told  him.     No, 
I  never  could  have  said,  "  God  gave  you  me 
To  fashion  you  a  body,  right  and  strong, 
With  sturdy  little  limbs  and  chest  and  neck 
For  fun  and  fighting  with  your  little  mates, 
Great  feats  and  voyages  in  the  breathless  world 
Of  out-of-doors, —  He  gave  you  me  for  this, 
And  I  was  such  a  bungler,  that  is  all  ! " 
O,  the  old  lie  —  that  thought  was  not  the  worst. 
I  never  have  been  truthful  with  myself. 
For  by  the  door  where  lurked  one  ghostly  thought 
I  stood  with  crazy  hands  to  thrust  it  back 
If  it  should  dare  to  peep  and  whisper  out 
Unbearable  things  about  me,  hearing  which 
The  women  passing  in  the  streets  would  turn 
To  pity  me  and  scold  me  with  their  eyes, 
Who  was  so  bad  a  mother  and  so  slow 
To  learn  to  help  God  do  his  wonder  in  her 
That  she  —  O  my  sweet  baby  !      It  was  not 
The  fear  that  you  would  see  the  difference 
Between  you  and  the  other  boys  and  girls; 
No,  no,  it  was  the  dimmer,  wilder  fear, 
That  you  might  never  see  it,  never  look 
Out  of  your  tiny  baby-house  of  mind, 
But  sit  your  life  through,  quiet  in  the  dark, 
Smiling  and  nodding  at  what  was  not  there ! 


28        TROUBLING   OF   THE   WATERS 

A  foolish  fear :   God  could  not  punish  so. 
Yet  until  yesterday  I  thought  He  would. 
My  soul  was  always  cowering  at  the  blow 
I  saw  suspended,  ready  to  be  dealt 
The  moment  that  I  showed  my  fear  too  much. 
Therefore  I  hid  it  from  Him  all  I  could, 
And  only  stole  a  shaking  glance  at  it 
Sometimes  in  the  dead  minutes  before  dawn 
When  He  forgets  to  watch.     Till  yesterday. 
For  yesterday  was  wonderful  and  strange 
From  the  beginning.     When  I  wakened  first 
And  looked  out  at  the  window,  the  last  snow 
Was  gone  from  earth  ;  about  the  apple-trees 
Hung  a  faint  mist  of  bloom ;  small  sudden  green 
Had  run  and  spread  and  rippled  everywhere 
Over  the  fields  ;  and  in  the  level  sun 
Walked  something  like  a  presence  and  a  power, 
Uttering  hopes  and  loving-kindnesses 
To  all  the  world,  but  chiefly  unto  me. 
It  walked  before  me  when  I  went  to  work, 
And  all  day  long  the  noises  of  the  mill 
Were  spun  upon  a  core  of  golden  sound, 
Half-spoken  words  and  interrupted  songs 
Of  blessed  promise,  meant  for  all  the  world, 
But  most  for  me,  because  I  suffered  most. 
The    shooting    spindles,    the    smooth-humming 
wheels, 


TROUBLING   OF  THE   WATERS       29 

The  rocking  webs,  seemed  toiling  to  some  end 

Beneficent  and  human  known  to  them, 

And  duly  brought  to  pass  in  power  and  love. 

The  faces  of  the  girls  and  men  at  work 

Met  mine  with  intense  greeting,  veiled  at  once, 

As  if  they  knew  a  secret  they  must  keep 

For  fear  the  joy  would  harm  me  if  they  told 

Before  some  inkling  filtered  to  my  mind 

In  roundabout  ways.     When  the  day's  work  was 

done 

There  lay  a  special  silence  on  the  fields ; 
And,  as  I  passed,  the  bushes  and  the  trees, 
The  very  ruts  and  puddles  of  the  road 
Spoke  to  each  other,  saying  it  was  she, 
The  happy  woman,  the  elected  one, 
The  vessel  of  strange  mercy  and  the  sign 
Of  many  loving  wonders  done  in  Heaven 
To  help  the  piteous  earth. 

At  last  I  stopped 

And  looked  about  me  in  sheer  wonderment. 
What  did  it  mean  ?     What  did  they  want  with 

me? 

What  was  the  matter  with  the  evening  now 
That  it  was  just  as  bound  to  make  me  glad 
As  morning  and  the  live-long  day  had  been  ? 
Me,  who  had  quite  forgot  what  gladness  was, 


30        TROUBLING    OF   THE   WATERS 

Who  had  no  right  to  anything  but  toil, 

And  food  and  sleep  for  strength  to  toil  again, 

And  that  fierce  frightened  anguish  of  my  love 

For  the  poor  little  spirit  I  had  wronged 

With  life  that  was  no  life.     What  had  befallen 

Since  yesterday  ?     No  need  to  stop  and  ask  ! 

Back  there  in  the  dark  places  of  my  mind 

Where  I  had  thrust  it,  fearing  to  believe 

An  unbelievable  mercy,  shone  the  news 

Told  by  the  village  neighbors  coming  home 

Last  night  from  the  great  city,  of  a  man 

Arisen,  like  the  first  evangelists, 

With  power  to  heal  the  bodies  of  the  sick, 

In  testimony  of  his  master  Christ, 

Who  heals  the  soul  when  it  is  sick  with  sin. 

Could  such  a  thing  be  true  in  these  hard  days  ? 

Was  help  still  sent  in  such  a  way  as  that  ? 

No,  no  !      I  did  not  dare  to  think  of  it, 

Feeling  what  weakness  and  despair  would  come 

After  the  crazy  hope  broke  under  me. 

I  turned  and  started  homeward,  faster  now, 

But  never  fast  enough  to  leave  behind 

The  voices  and  the  troubled  happiness 

That  still  kept  mounting,  mounting  like  a  sea, 

And  singing  far-off  like  a  rush  of  wings. 

Far  down  the  road  a  yellow  spot  of  light 

Shone  from  my  cottage  window,  rayless  yet, 


TROUBLING   OF   THE   WATERS        31 

Where  the  last  sunset  crimson  caught  the  panes. 
Alice  had  lit  the  lamp  before  she  went; 
Her  day  of  pity  and  unmirthful  play 
Was  over,  and  her  young  heart  free  to  live 
Until  to-morrow  brought  her  nursing-task 
Again,  and  made  her  feel  how  dark  and  still 
That  life  could  be  to  others  which  to  her 
Was  full  of  dreams  that  beckoned,  reaching  hands, 
And  thrilling  invitations  young  girls  hear. 
My  boy  was  sleeping,  little  mind  and  frame 
More  tired  just  lying  there  awake  two  hours 
Than  with  a  whole  day's  romp  he  should  have 

been. 

He  would  not  know  his  mother  had  come  home  ,- 
But  after  supper  I  would  sit  awhile 
Beside  his  bed,  and  let  my  heart  have  time 
For  that  worst  love  that  stabs  and  breaks  and  kills 
This  I  thought  over  to  myself  by  rote 
And  habit,  but  I  could  not  feel  my  thoughts  ; 
For  still  that  dim  unmeaning  happiness 
Kept  mounting,  mounting  round  me  like  a  sea, 
And  singing  inward  like  a  wind  of  wings. 

Before  I  lifted  up  the  latch,  I  knew. 
I  felt  no  fear;  the  One  who  waited  there 
In  the  low  lamplight  by  the  bed,  had  come 
Because  I  was  his  sister  and  in  need. 


32        TROUBLING   OF   THE   WATERS 

My  word  had  got  to  Him  somehow  at  last, 
And  He  had  come  to  help  me  or  to  tell 
Where  help  was  to  be  found.    It  was  not  strange. 
Strange  only  He  had  stayed  away  so  long ; 
But  that  should  be  forgotten  —  He  was  here. 
I  pushed  the  door  wide  open  and  looked  in. 
He  had  been  kneeling  by  the  bed,  and  now, 
Half-risen,  kissed  my  boy  upon  the  lips, 
Then   turned  and  smiled   and   pointed   with  his 

hand. 

I  must  have  fallen  on  the  threshold  stone, 
For  I  remember  that  I  felt,  not  saw, 
The  resurrection  glory  and  the  peace 
Shed  from  his  face  and  raiment  as  He  went 
Out  by  the  door  into  the  evening  street. 
But  when  I  looked,  the  place  about  the  bed 
Was  yet  all  bathed  in  light,  and  in  the  midst 
My  boy  lay  changed,  —  no  longer  clothed  upon 
With  scraps  and  shreds  of  life,  but  like  the  child 
Of  some  most  fortunate  mother.     In  a  breath 
The  image  faded.     There  he  lay  again 
The  same  as  always  ;  and  the  light  was  gone. 
J  sank  with  moans  and  cries  beside  the  bed. 
The  cruelty,  O  Christ,  the  cruelty  ! 
To  come  at  last  and  then  to  go  like  that, 
Leaving  the  darkness  deeper  than  before  ! 


TROUBLING   OF   THE   WATERS        33 

Then,  though  I  heard  no  sound,  I  grew  aware 
Of  some  one  standing  by  the  open  door 
Among  the  dry  vines  rustling  in  the  porch. 
My  heart  laughed  suddenly.    He  had  come  back  ! 
He  had  come  back  to  make  the  vision  true. 
He  had  not  meant  to  mock  me :  God  was  God, 
And  Christ  was  Christ;  there  was  no  falsehood 

there. 

I  heard  a  quiet  footstep  cross  the  room 
And  felt  a  hand  laid  gently  on  my  hair,  — 
A  human  hand,  worn  hard  by  daily  toil, 
Heavy  with  life-long  struggle  after  bread. 
Alice's  father.     The  kind  homely  voice 
Had  in  it  such  strange  music  that  I  dreamed 
Perhaps  it  was  the  Other  speaking  in  him, 
Because  His  own  bright  form  had  made  me  SWOOP 
With  its  too  much  of  glory.     What  he  brought 
Was  news  as  good  as  ever  heavenly  lips 
Had  the  dear  right  to  utter.     He  had  been 
All  day  among  the  crowds  of  curious  folk 
From  the  great  city  and  the  country-side 
Gathered  to  watch  the  Healer  do  his  work 
Of  mercy  on  the  sick  and  halt  and  blind, 
And  with  his  very  eyes  had  seen  such  things 
As  awestruck  men  had  witnessed  long  ago 
In  Galilee,  and  writ  of  in  the  Book. 
To-morrow  morning  he  would  take  me  there 


34        TROUBLING   OF   THE   WATERS 

If  I  had  strength  and  courage  to  believe. 
It  might  be  there  was  hope  5  he  could  not  say, 
But  knew  what  he  had  seen.     When  he  was  gone 
I  lay  for  hours,  letting  the  solemn  waves 
Thundering  joy  go  over  and  over  me. 

Just  before  midnight  baby  fretted,  woke ; 
He  never  yet  has  slept  a  whole  night  through 
Without  his  food  and  petting.     As  I  sat 
Feeding  and  petting  him  and  singing  soft, 
I  felt  a  jealousy  begin  to  ache 
And  worry  at  my  heartstrings,  hushing  down 
The  gladness.     Jealousy  of  what  or  whom  ? 
I  hardly  knew,  or  could  not  put  in  words; 
At  least  it  seemed  too  foolish  and  too  wrong 
When  said,  and  so  I  shut  the  thought  away. 
Only,  next  minute,  it  came  stealing  back. 
After  the  change,  would  my  boy  be  the  same 
As  this  one  ?     Would  he  be  my  boy  at  all, 
And  not  another's —  his  who  gave  the  life 
I  could  not  give,  or  did  not  anyhow  ? 
How  could  I  look  in  his  new  eyes  to  claim 
The  whole  of  him,  the  body  and  the  breath, 
When  some  one  not  his  mother,  a  strange  man, 
Had  clothed  him  in  that  beauty  of  the  flesh  — 
Perhaps  (for  who  could  know  ?),  perhaps,  by  some 
Hateful  disfiguring  miracle,  had  even 


TROUBLING   OF   THE   WATERS        35 

Transformed  his  spirit  to  a  better  one, 
Better,  but  not  the  same  I  prayed  for  him 
Down    out    of    Heaven    through    the    sleepless 

nights, — 

The  best  that  God  would  send  to  such  as  me. 
I  tried  to  strangle  back  the  wicked  pain  ; 
Fancied  him  changed  and  tried  to  love  him  so. 
No  use ;  it  was  another,  not  my  child, 
Not  my  frail,  broken,  priceless  little  one, 
My  cup  of  anguish,  and  my  trembling  star 
Hung  small  and  sad  and  sweet  above  the  earth, 
So  sure  to  fall  but  for  my  cherishing ! 

When  he  had  dropped  asleep  again,  I  rose 

And  wrestled  with  the  sinful  selfishness, 

The  dark  injustice,  the  unnatural  pain. 

Fevered  at  last  with  pacing  to  and  fro, 

I  raised  the  bedroom  window  and  leaned  out. 

The  white  moon,  low  behind  the  sycamores, 

Silvered  the  silent  country ;  not  a  voice 

Of  all  the  myriads  summer  moves  to  sing 

Had  yet  awakened ;  in  the  level  moon 

Walked  that  same  presence  I  had  heard  at  dawn 

Dttering  hopes  and  loving-kindnesses, 

But  now,  dispirited  and  reticent, 

It  walked  the  moonlight  like  a  homeless  thing. 

O,  how  to  cleanse  me  of  the  cowardice  ! 


36        TROUBLING   OF  THE   WATERS 

How  to  be  just !     Was  I  a  mother,  then, 

A  mother,  and  not  love  her  child  as  well 

As  her  own  covetous  and  morbid  love  ? 

Was  it  for  this  the  Comforter  had  come, 

Smiling  at  me  and  pointing  with  His  hand  ? 

—  What  had  He  meant  to  have  me  think  or  do, 

Smiling  and  pointing  ? 

All  at  once  I  saw 

A  way  to  save  my  darling  from  myself 
And  make  atonement  for  my  grudging  love ! 
Under  the  sycamores  and  up  the  hill 
And  down  across  the  river,  the  wet  road 
Went  stretching  cityward,  silvered  in  the  moon. 
I  who  had  shrunk  from  sacrifice,  even  I, 
Who  had  refused  God's  blessing  for  my  boy, 
Would  take  him  in  my  arms  and  carry  him 
Up  to  the  altar  of  the  miracle. 
I  would  not  wait  for  daylight,  nor  the  help 
Of  any  human  friendship;  I  alone, 
Through  the  still  miles  of  country,  I  alone, 
Only  my  arms  to  shield  him  and  my  feet 
To  bear  him :  he  should  have  no  one  to  thank 
But  me  for  that.     I  knew  the  way  was  long, 
But  knew  strength  would  be  given.     So  I  came. 
Soon  the  stars  failed  ;  the  late  moon  faded  too : 
I   think  my   heart   had   sucked  their  beams  from 
them 


TROUBLING   OF   THE   WATERS        37 

To  build  more  blue  amid  the  murky  night 

Its  own  miraculous  day.     From  creeks  and  fields 

The  fog  climbed  slowly,  blotted  out  the  road; 

And  hid  the  signposts  telling  of  the  town  ; 

After  a  while  rain  fell,  with  sleet  and  snow. 

What  did  I  care  ?     Baby  was  snug  and  dry. 

Some  day,  when  I  was  telling  him  of  this, 

He  would  but  hug  me  closer,  hearing  how 

The  night  conspired  against  us.     Better  hard 

Than  easy,  then :  I  almost  felt  regret 

My  body  was  so  capable  and  strong 

To  do  its  errand.     Honeyed  drop  by  drop, 

The  ghostly  jealousy,  loosening  at  my  breast, 

Distilled  into  a  dew  of  quiet  tears 

And  fell  with  splash  of  music  in  the  wells 

And  on  the  hidden  rivers  of  my  soul. 

The  hardest  part  was  coming  through  the  town. 
The  country,  even  when  it  hindered  most, 
Seemed  conscious  of  the  thing  I  went  to  find. 
The  rocks  and  bushes  looming  through  the  mist 
Questioned  and  acquiesced  and  understood; 
The  trees   and  streams  believed ;  the  wind  and 

rain, 

Even  they,  for  all  their  temper,  had  some  words 
Of  faith  and  comfort.     But  the  glaring  streets, 
The  dizzy  traffic,  the  piled  merchandise, 


38        TROUBLING   OF   THE   WATERS 

The  giant  buildings  swarming  with  fierce  life  — 
Cared  nothing  for  me.     They  had  never  heard 
Of  me  nor  of  my  business.     When  I  asked 
My  way,  a  shade  of  pity  or  contempt 
Showed   through   men's  kindness — for  they  all 

were  kind. 

Daunted  and  chilled  and  very  sick  at  heart, 
I  walked  the  endless  pavements.      But  at  last 
The  streets  grew  quieter ;  the  houses  seemed 
As  if  they  might  be  homes  where  people  lived ; 
Then  came  the  factories  and  cottages, 
And  all  was  well  again.     Much  more  than  well, 
For  many  sick  and  broken  went  my  way, 
Alone  or  helped  along  by  loving  hands ; 
And  from  a  thousand  eyes  the  famished  hope 
Looked  out  at  mine  —  wild,  patient,  querulous, 
But  always  hope  and  hope,  a  thousand  tongues 
Speaking  one  word  in  many  languages. 

In  two  hours  He  will  come,  they  say,  will  stand 
There  on  the  steps,  above  the  waiting  crowd, 
And  touch  with  healing  hands  whoever  asks 
Believingly,  in  spirit  and  in  truth. 
Can  such  a  mercy  be,  in  these  hard  days  ? 
Is  help  still  sent  in  such  a  way  as  that  ? 
Christ,  I  believe;  pity  my  unbelief! 


JETSAM 

I  WONDER  can  this  be  the  world  it  was 

At  sunset  ?     I  remember  the  sky  fell 

Green  as  pale  meadows,  at  the  long  street-ends, 

But  overhead  the  smoke-wrack  hugged  the  roofs 

As  if  to  shut  the  city  from  God's  eyes 

Till  dawn   should  quench  the   laughter  and  the 

lights. 

Beneath  the  gas  flare  stolid  faces  passed, 
Too  dull  for  sin ;  old  loosened  lips  set  hard 
To  drain  the  stale  lees  from  the  cup  of  sense ; 
Or  if  a  young  face  yearned  from  out  the  mist 
Made  by  its  own  bright  hair,  the  eyes  were  wan 
With  desolate  fore-knowledge  of  the  end. 
My  life  lay  waste  about  me  :  as  I  walked, 
From  the  gross  dark  of  unfrequented  streets 
The  face  of  my  own  youth  peered  forth  at  me, 
Struck  white  with  pity  at  the  thing  I  was ; 
And  globed  in  ghostly  fire,  thrice-virginal, 
With  lifted  face  star-strong,  went  one  who  sang 
Lost  verses  from  my  youth's  gold  canticle. 
Out  of  the  void  dark  came  my  face  and  hers 
One  vivid  moment  —  then  the  street  was  there  ; 


40  JETSAM 

Bloat  shapes  and  mean  eyes  blotted  the  sear  dusk ; 
And  in  the  curtained  window  of  a  house 
Whence  sin  reeked  on  the  night,  a  shameful  head 
Was  silhouetted  black  as  Satan's  face 
Against  eternal  fires.     I  stumbled  on 
Down  the  dark  slope  that  reaches  riverward, 
Stretching  blind  hands  to  find  the  throat  of  God 
And  crush  Him  in  his  lies.     The  river  lay 
Coiled  in  its  factory  filth  and  few  lean  trees. 
All  was  too  hateful  —  I  could  not  die  there ! 
I  whom  the  Spring  had  strained  unto  her  breast, 
Whose  lips  had  felt  the  wet  vague  lips  of  dawn. 
So  under  the  thin  willows'  leprous  shade 
And  through  the  tangled  ranks  of  riverweed 
I  pushed  —  till  lo,  God  heard  me  !     I  came  forth 
Where,  'neath  the  shoreless  hush  of  region  light, 
Through  a  new  world,  undreamed  of,  undesired, 
Beyond  imagining  of  man's  weary  heart, 
Far  to  the  white  marge  of  the  wondering  sea 
This  still  plain  widens,  and  this  moon  rains  down 
Insufferable  ecstasy  of  peace. 

My  heart  is  man's  heart,  strong  to  bear  this  night's 

Unspeakable  affliction  of  mute  love 

That  crazes  lesser  things.    The  rocks  and  clods 

Dissemble,  feign  a  busy  intercourse ; 

The  bushes  deal  in  shadowy  subterfuge, 


JETSAM  41 

Lurk  dull,  dart  spiteful  out,  make  heartless  signs, 
Utter  awestricken  purpose  of  no  sense,  — 
But  I  walk  quiet,  crush  aside  the  hands 
Stretched  furtively  to  drag  me  madmen's  ways. 
I  know  the  thing  they  suffer,  and  the  tricks 
They  must  be  at  to  help  themselves  endure. 
I  would  not  be  too  boastful ;  I  am  weak, 
Too  weak  to  put  aside  the  utter  ache 
Of  this  lone  splendor  long  enough  to  see 
Whether  the  moon  is  still  her  white  strange  self 
Or  something  whiter,  stranger,  even  the  face 
Which  by  the  changed  face  of  my  risen  youth 
Sang,  globed  in  fire,  her  golden  canticle. 
I  dare  not  look  again ;  another  gaze 
Might  drive  me  to  the  wavering  coppice  there, 
Where  bat-winged  madness  brushed  me,  the  wild 

laugh 

Of  naked  nature  crashed  across  my  blood. 
So  rank  it  was  with  earthy  presences, 
Faun-shapes  in  goatish  dance,  young  witches'  eyes 
Slanting  deep  invitation,  whinnying  calls 
Ambiguous,    shocks    and     whirlwinds     of    wild 

mirth,  — 

They  had  undone  me  in  the  darkness  there, 
But  that  within  me,  smiting  through  my  lids 
Lowered  to  shut  in  the  thick  whirl  of  sense, 
The  dumb  light  ached  and  rummaged,  and  with 

out, 


42  JETSAM 

The  soaring  splendor  summoned  me  aloud 
To  leave  the  low  dank  thickets  of  the  flesh 
Where  man  meets  beast  and  makes  his  lair  with 

him, 

For  spirit  reaches  of  the  strenuous  vast, 
Where  stalwart  stars  reap  grain  to  make  the  bread 
God  breaketh  at  his  tables  and  is  glad. 
I  came  out  in  the  moonlight  cleansed  and  strong, 
And  gazed  up  at  the  lyric  face  to  see 
All  sweetness  tasted  of  in  earthen  cups 
Ere  it  be  dashed  and  spilled,  all  radiance  flung 
Beyond  experience,  every  benison  dream, 
Treasured  and  mystically  crescent  there. 

O,  who  will   shield   me  from  her  ?       Who   will 

place 

A  veil  between  me  and  the  fierce  in-throng 
Of  her  inexorable  benedicite  ? 
See,  I  have  loved  her  well  and  been  with  her ! 
Through  tragic  twilights  when  the  stricken  sea 
Groveled    with    fear ;    or    when    she    made   het 

throne 

In  imminent  cities  built  of  gorgeous  winds 
And  paved  with  lightnings  ;  or  when  the  sobering 

stars 
Would  lead  her  home  'mid  wealth  of  plundered 

May 


JETSAM  43 

Along  the  violet  slopes  of  evensong. 

Of  all  the  sights  that  starred  the  dreamy  year, 

For  me  one  sight  stood  peerless  and  apart : 

Bright  rivers  tacit ;  low  hills  prone  and  dumb ; 

Forests  that  hushed  their  tiniest  voice  to  hear  ; 

Skies  for  the  unutterable  advent  robed 

In  purple  like  the  opening  iris  buds ; 

And  by  some  lone  expectant  pool,  one  tree 

Whose   gray    boughs    shivered    with    excess    of 

awe, — 

As  with  preluding  gush  of  amber  light, 
And  herald  trumpets  softly  lifted  through, 
Across  the  palpitant  horizon  marge 
Crocus-filleted  came  the  singing  moon. 
Out  of  her  changing  lights  I  wove  my  youth 
A  place  to  dwell  in,  sweet  and  spiritual, 
And  all  the  bitter  years  of  my  exile 
My  heart  has  called  afar  off  unto  her. 
Lo,  after  many  days  love  finds  its  own  ! 
The  futile  adorations,  the  waste  tears, 
The  hymns  that  fluttered  low  in  the  false  dawn, 
She  has  uptreasured  as  a  lover's  gifts  ; 
They  are  the  mystic  garment  that  she  wears 
Against  the  bridal,  and  the  crocus  flowers 
She  twined  her  brow  with  at  the  going  forth; 
They  are  the  burden  of  the  song  she  made 
In  coming  through  the  quiet  fields  of  space, 


44  JETSAM 

And  breathe  between  her  passion-parted  lips 
Calling  me  out  along  the  flowering  road 
Which  summers  through  the  dimness  of  the  sea. 

Hark,  where  the   deep  feels  round  its   thousand 

shores 

To  find  remembered  respite,  and  far  drawn 
Through  weed-strewn  shelves  and  crannies  of  the 

coast 
The  myriad  silence  yearns  to  myriad  speech. 

0  sea  that  yearns  a  day,  shall  thy  tongues  be 
So  eloquent,  and  heart,  shall  all  thy  tongues 
Be  dumb  to  speak  thy  longing  ?     Say  I  hold 
Life  as  a  broken  jewel  in  my  hand, 

And  fain  would  buy  a  little  love  with  it 

For  comfort,  say  I  fain  would  make  it  shine 

Once  in  remembering  eyes  ere  it  be  dust,  — 

Were  life  not  worthy  spent  ?    Then  what  of  this, 

When  all  my  spirit  hungers  to  repay 

The   beauty    that    has    drenched    my   soul   with 

peace  ? 
Once  at  a  simple  turning  of  the  way 

1  met  God  walking ;  and  although  the  dawn 
Was  large  behind  Him,  and  the  morning  stars 
Circled  and  sang  about  his  face  as  birds 
About  the  fieldward  morning  cottager, 

My  coward  heart  said  faintly,  "  Let  us  haste  1 


JETSAM  45 

Day  grows  and  it  is  far  to  market-town." 
Once  where  I  lay  in  darkness  after  fight, 
Sore  smitten,  thrilled  a  little  thread  of  song 
Searching  and  searching  at  my  muffled  sense 
Until  it  shook  sweet  pangs  through  all  my  blood, 
And  I  beheld  one  globed  in  ghostly  fire 
Singing,  star-strong,  her  golden  canticle ; 
And  her  mouth  sang,  "  The   hosts  of  Hate  roll 

past, 

A  dance  of  dust  motes  in  the  sliding  sun ; 
Love's  battle  comes  on  the  wide  wings  of  storm, 
From  east  to  west  one  legion !  Wilt  thou  strive  ?  " 
Then,  since  the  splendor  of  her  sword-bright  gaze 
Was  heavy  on  me  with  yearning  and  with  scorn 
My  sick  heart  muttered,  "  Yea,  the  little  strife, 
Yet  see,  the   grievous   wounds  !     I   fain   would 

sleep." 

O  heart,  shalt  thou  not  once  be  strong  to  go 
Where  all  sweet  throats  are  calling,  once  be  brave 
To  slake  with  deed  thy  dumbness  ?     Let  us  go 
The  path  her  singing  face  looms  low  to  point, 
Pendulous,  blanched  with  longing,  shedding  flame 
Of  silver  on  the  brown  grope  of  the  flood ; 
For  all  my  spirit's  soilure  is  put  by 
And  all  my  body's  soilure,  lacking  now 
But  the  last  lustral  sacrament  of  death 
To  make  me  clean  for  those  near-searching  eyes 


46  JETSAM 

That  question  yonder  whether  all  be  well, 
And  pause  a  little  ere  they  dare  rejoice. 

Question  and  be  thou  answered,  passionate  face  \ 
For  I  am  worthy,  worthy  now  at  last 
After  so  long  unworth ;  strong  now  at  last 
To  give  myself  to  beauty  and  be  saved  ; 
Now,  being  man,  to  give  myself  to  thee, 
As  once  the  tumult  of  my  boyish  heart 
Companioned  thee  with  rapture  through  the  world, 
Forth  from  a  land  whereof  no  poet's  lip 
Made  mention  how  the  leas  were  lily-sprent, 
Into  a  land  God's  eyes  had  looked  not  on 
To  love  the  tender  bloom  upon  the  hills. 
To-morrow,  when  the  fishers  come  at  dawn 
Upon  that  shell  of  me  the  sea  has  tossed 
To  land,  as  fit  for  earth  to  use  again, 
Men,  meeting  at  the  shops  and  corner  streets, 
Will  speak  a  word  of  pity,  glossing  o'er 
With  altered  accent,  dubious  sweep  of  hand, 
Their  virile,  just  contempt  for  one  who  failed. 
But  they  can  never  cast  my  earnings  up, 
Who  know  so  well  my  losses.     Even  you 
Who  in  the  mild  light  of  the  spirit  walk 
And  hold  yourselves  acquainted  with  the  truth, 
Be  not  too  swift  to  judge  and  cast  me  out ! 
You  shall  find  other,  nobler  ways  than  mine 


JETSAM  47 

To  work  your  soul's  redemption,  —  glorious  noons 

Of  battle  'neath  the  heaven-suspended  sign, 

And  nightly  refuge  'neath  God's  aegis-rim ; 

Increase  of  wisdom,  and  acquaintance  held 

With  the  heart's  austerities  ;  still  governance, 

And  ripening  of  the  blood  in  the  weekday  sun 

To  make  the  full-orbed  consecrated  fruit 

At  life's  end  for  the  Sabbath  supper  meet. 

I  shall  not  sit  beside  you  at  that  feast, 

For  ere  a  seedling  of  my  golden  tree 

Pushed  off  its  petals  to  get  room  to  grow, 

I  stripped  the  boughs  to  make  an  April  gaud 

And  wreathe  a  spendthrift  garland  for  my  hair. 

But  mine  is  not  the  failure  God  deplores; 

For  I  of  old  am  beauty's  votarist, 

Long  recreant,  often  foiled  and  led  astray, 

But  resolute  at  last  to  seek  her  there 

Where  most  she  does  abide,  and  crave  with  tears 

That  she  assoil  me  of  my  blemishment. 

Low  looms  her  singing  face  to  point  the  way, 

Pendulous,  blanched  with  longing,  shedding  flame 

Of  silver  on  the  brown  grope  of  the  flood. 

The  stars  are  for  me ;  the  horizon  wakes 

Its  pilgrim  chanting ;  and  the  little  sand 

Grows  musical  of  hope  beneath  my  feet. 

The  waves  that  leap  to  meet  my  swimming  breast 

Gossip  sweet  secrets  of  the  light-drenched  way, 


48  JETSAM 

And  when  the  deep  throbs  of  the  rising  surge 
Pulse  upward  with  me,  and  a  rain  of  wings 
Blurs  round  the  moon's  pale  place,  she  stoops  to 

reach 

Still  welcome  of  bright  hands  across  the  wave, 
And  sings  low,  low,  globed  all  in  ghostly  fire, 
Lost  verses  from  my  youth's  gold  canticle. 


THE   BRUTE 

THROUGH  his  might  men  work  their  wills. 

They  have  boweled  out  the  hills 

For  food  to  keep  him  toiling  in  the  cages  they 
have  wrought ; 

And  they  fling  him,  hour  by  hour, 

Limbs  of  men  to  give  him  power ; 

Brains  of  men  to  give  him  cunning ;  and  for  dain 
ties  to  devour 

Children's  souls,  the  little  worth;  hearts  of 
women,  cheaply  bought : 

He  takes  them  and  he  breaks  them,  but  he  gives 
them  scanty  thought. 

For  about  the  noisy  land, 

Roaring,  quivering  'neath  his  hand, 

His  thoughts  brood  fierce  and  sullen  or  laugh  in 

lust  of  pride 

O'er  the  stubborn  things  that  he, 
Breaks  to  dust  and  brings  to  be. 
Some  he  mightily  establishes,  some  flings   down 

utterly. 


50  THE   BRUTE 

There   is  thunder  in   his  stride,  nothing  ancient 

can  abide, 
When  he  hales  the  hills  together  and  bridles  up 

the  tide. 

Quietude  and  loveliness, 

Holy  sights  that  heal  and  bless, 

They  are  scattered  and  abolished  where  his  iron 

hoof  is  set ; 

When  he  splashes  through  the  brae 
Silver  streams  are  choked  with  clay, 
When  he  snorts  the  bright  cliffs  crumble  and  the 

woods  go  down  like  hay  ; 
He  lairs  in  pleasant  cities,  and  the  haggard  people 

fret 
Squalid  'mid  their  new-got  riches,  soot-begrimed 

and  desolate. 

They  who  caught  and  bound  him  tight 

Laughed  exultant  at  his  might, 

Saying,  "  Now  behold,  the  good  time  comes  for 
the  weariest  and  the  least ! 

We  will  use  this  lusty  knave : 

No  more  need  for  men  to  slave ; 

We  may  rise  and  look  about  us  and  have  know 
ledge  ere  the  grave." 


THE   BRUTE  51 

But  the  Brute  said  in  his  breast,  "  Till  the  mills 

I  grind  have  ceased, 
The  riches  shall  be  dust  of  dust,  dry  ashes  be  the 

feast! 

"On  the  strong  and  cunning  few 

Cynic  favors  I  will  strew; 

I  will  stuff  their  maw  with   overplus  until  their 

spirit  dies; 

From  the  patient  and  the  low 
I  will  take  the  joys  they  know ; 
They  shall  hunger  after  vanities  and  still  an-hun- 

gered  go. 
Madness  shall  be  on  the  people,  ghastly  jealousies 

arise ; 
Brother's  blood  shall  cry  on  brother  up  the  dead 

and  empty  skies. 

"I  will  burn  and  dig  and  hack 

Till  the  heavens  suffer  lack; 

God  shall  feel  a  pleasure  fail  him,  crying  to  his 

cherubim, 

'  Who  hath  flung  yon  mud-ball  there 
Where  my  world  went  green  and  fair  ? ' 
I  shall  laugh  and  hug  me,  hearing  how  his  senti 
nels  declare, 


52  THE   BRUTE 

4  'T  is  the  Brute  they  chained  to  labor !     He  has 

made  the  bright  earth  dim. 
Store  of  wares  and  pelf  a  plenty,  but  they  got  no 

good  of  him.'  " 

So  he  plotted  in  his  rage : 
So  he  deals  it,  age  by  age. 
But  even  as  he  roared  his  curse  a  still  small  Voice 

befell ; 
Lo,  a  still  and  pleasant  voice  bade  them  none  the 

less  rejoice, 
For  the  Brute  must  bring  the  good  time  on ;  he 

has  no  other  choice. 
He  may  struggle,  sweat,  and  yell,  but  he  knows 

exceeding  well 
He  must  work  them  out  salvation  ere  they  send 

him  back  to  hell. 

All  the  desert  that  he  made 

He  must  treble  bless  with  shade, 

In  primal  wastes  set  precious  seed  of  rapture  and 

of  pain ; 

All  the  strongholds  that  he  built 
For  the  powers  of  greed  and  guilt  — 
He  must  strew  their  bastions   down  the  sea  and 

choke  their  towers  with  silt ; 


THE   BRUTE  53 

He  must  make  the  temples  clean  for  the  gods  to 

come  again, 
And  lift  the  lordly  cities   under  skies  without  a 

stain. 

In  a  very  cunning  tether 

He  must  lead  the  tyrant  weather; 

He  must  loose  the  curse  of  Adam  from  the  worn 
neck  of  the  race ; 

He  must  cast  out  hate  and  fear, 

Dry  away  each  fruitless  tear, 

And  make  the  fruitful  tears  to  gush  from  the  deep 
heart  and  clear. 

He  must  give  each  man  his  portion,  each  his 
pride  and  worthy  place ; 

He  must  batter  down  the  arrogant  and  lift  the 
weary  face, 

On  each  vile  mouth  set  purity,  on  each  low  fore 
head  grace. 

Then,  perhaps,  at  the  last  day, 

They  will  whistle  him  away, 

Lay  a  hand  upon  his  muzzle  in  the  face  of  God, 

and  say, 

"  Honor,  Lord,  the  Thing  we  tamed ! 
X  et  him  not  be  scourged  or  blamed. 


54  THE   BRUTE 

Even  through  his  wrath  and  fierceness  was  thy 
fierce  wroth  world  reclaimed  ! 

Honor  Thou  thy  servants'  servant ;  let  thy  jus 
tice  now  be  shown." 

Then  the  Lord  will  heed  their  saying,  and  the 
Brute  come  to  his  own, 

'Twixt  the  Lion  and  the  Eagle,  by  the  armpost 
of  the  Throne. 


THE   MENAGERIE 

THANK  God  my  brain  is  not  inclined  to  cut 
Such  capers  every  day  !      I  'm  just  about 
Mellow,  but  then  —     There  goes  the  tent-flap 

shut. 

Rain  's  in  the  wind.     I  thought  so  :  every  snout 
Was  twitching  when  the  keeper  turned  me  out. 

That  screaming  parrot  makes  my  blood  run  cold. 

Gabriel's  trump  !  the  big  bull  elephant 

Squeals    "Rain!"    to    the    parched    herd.     The 

monkeys  scold, 

And  jabber  that  it 's  rain  water  they  want. 
(It  makes  me  sick  to  see  a  monkey  pant.) 

I  '11  foot  it  home,  to  try  and  make  believe 
I  'm  sober.     After  this  I  stick  to  beer, 
And  drop  the  circus  when  the  sane  folks  leave. 
A  man  Js  a  fool  to  look  at  things  too  near : 
They  look  back,  and  begin  to  cut  up  queer. 

Beasts  do,  at  any  rate ;  especially 

Wild  devils  caged.     They  have  the  coolest  way 


56  THE    MENAGERIE 

Of  being  something  else  than  what  you  see  : 
You  pass  a  sleek  young  zebra  nosing  hay, 
A  nylghau  looking  bored  and  distingue,  — 

And  think  you  've  seen  a  donkey  and  a  bird. 
Not   on   your  life  !      Just    glance    back,   if  you 

dare. 

The  zebra  chews,  the  nylghau  has  n't  stirred ; 
But  something's  happened,  Heaven  knows  what 

or  where, 
To  freeze  your  scalp  and  pompadour  your  hair. 

I  'm  not  precisely  an  aeolian  lute 
Hung  in  the  wandering  winds  of  sentiment, 
But  drown  me  if  the  ugliest,  meanest  brute 
Grunting  and  fretting  in  that  sultry  tent 
Did  n't  just  floor  me  with  embarrassment ! 

'T  was  like  a  thunder-clap  from  out  the  clear,  — 
One  minute  they  were  circus  beasts,  some  grand, 
Some  ugly,  some  amusing,  and  some  queer : 
Rival  attractions  to  the  hobo  band, 
The  flying  jenny,  and  the  peanut  stand. 

Next  minute  they  were  old  hearth-mates  of  mine  ! 
Lost  people,  eyeing  me  with  such  a  stare! 
Patient,  satiric,  devilish,  divine  ; 


THE   MENAGERIE  57 

A  gaze  of  hopeless  envy,  squalid  care, 
Hatred,  and  thwarted  love,  and  dim  despair. 

Within  my  blood  my  ancient  kindred  spoke,  — 
Grotesque  and  monstrous  voices,  heard  afar 
Down  ocean  caves  when  behemoth  awoke, 
Or  through  fern  forests  roared  the  plesiosaur 
Locked  with  the  giant-bat  in  ghastly  war. 

And  suddenly,  as  in  a  flash  of  light, 

I  saw  great  Nature  working  out  her  plan ; 

Through  all  her  shapes  from  mastodon  to  mite 

Forever  groping,  testing,  passing  on 

To  find  at  last  the  shape  and  soul  of  Man. 

Till  in  the  fullness  of  accomplished  time, 
Comes  brother  Forepaugh,  upon  business  bent, 
Tracks  her  through   frozen  and   through    torrid 

clime, 

And  shows  us,  neatly  labeled  in  a  tent, 
The  stages  of  her  huge  experiment ; 

Blabbing  aloud  her  shy  and  reticent  hours; 
Dragging  to  light  her  blinking,  slothful  moods ; 
Publishing  fretful  seasons  when  her  powers 
Worked  wild  and  sullen  in  her  solitudes, 
Or  when  her  mordant  laughter  shook  the  woods. 


58  THE   MENAGERIE 

Here,  round  about  me,  were  her  vagrant  births ; 
Sick  dreams  she  had,  fierce  projects  she  essayed ; 
Her  qualms,  her  fiery  prides,  her  crazy  mirths  ; 
The  troublings  of  her  spirit  as  she  strayed, 
Cringed,  gloated,  mocked,  was  lordly,  was  afraid, 

On  that  long  road  she  went  to  seek  mankind; 
Here  were  the  darkling  coverts  that  she  beat 
To  find  the  Hider  she  was  sent  to  find ; 
Here  the  distracted  footprints  of  her  feet 
Whereby  her  soul's  Desire  she  came  to  greet. 

But  why  should  they,  her  botch-work,  turn  about 
And  stare  disdain  at  me,  her  finished  job  ? 
Why  was  the  place  one  vast  suspended  shout 
Of  laughter  ?     Why  did  all  the  daylight  throb 
With  soundless  guffaw  and  dumb-stricken  sob  ? 

Helpless  I  stood  among  those  awful  cages ; 

The  beasts  were  walking  loose,  and  I  was  bagged  ! 

I,  I,  last  product  of  the  toiling  ages, 

Goal  of  heroic  feet  that  never  lagged,  — 

A  little  man  in  trousers,  slightly  jagged. 

Deliver  me  from  such  another  jury  ! 
The  Judgment-day  will  be  a  picnic  to  't. 
Their  satire  was  more  dreadful  than  their  fury, 


THE   MENAGERIE  59 

And  worst  of  all  was  just  a  kind  of  brute 
Disgust,  and  giving  up,  and  sinking  mute. 

Survival  of  the  fittest,  adaptation, 
And  all  their  other  evolution  terms, 
Seem  to  omit  one  small  consideration, 
To  wit,  that  tumblebugs  and  angleworms 
Have   souls :    there  Js    soul    in    everything    that 
squirms. 

And  souls  are  restless,  plagued,  impatient  things, 
All  dream  and  unaccountable  desire ; 
Crawling,  but  pestered  with  the  thought  of  wings ; 
Spreading  through  every  inch  of  earth's  old  mire 
Mystical  hanker  after  something  higher. 

Wishes  are  horses,  as  I  understand. 

I  guess  a  wistful  polyp  that  has  strokes 

Of  feeling  faint  to  gallivant  on  land 

Will  come  to  be  a  scandal  to  his  folks ; 

Legs  he  will  sprout,  in  spite  of  threats  and  jokes. 

And  at  the  core  of  every  life  that  crawls 
Or  runs  or  flies  or  swims  or  vegetates  — 
Churning  the  mammoth's  heart-blood,  in  the  galls 
Of  shark  and  tiger  planting  gorgeous  hates, 
Lighting  the  love  of  eagles  for  their  mates ; 


60  THE   MENAGERIE 

Yes,  in  the  dim  brain  of  the  jellied  fish 

That  is  and  is  not  living  —  moved  and  stirred 

From  the  beginning  a  mysterious  wish, 

A  vision,  a  command,  a  fatal  Word : 

The  name  of  Man  was  uttered,  and  they  heard. 

Upward  along  the  aeons  of  old  war 

They  sought  him  :  wing  and  shank-bone,  claw 

and  bill 

Were  fashioned  and  rejected ;  wide  and  far 
They  roamed  the  twilight  jungles  of  their  will ; 
But  still  they  sought  him,  and  desired  him  still. 

Man  they  desired,  but  mind  you,  Perfect  Man, 

The  radiant  and  the  loving,  yet  to  be  ! 

I  hardly  wonder,  when  they  came  to  scan 

The  upshot  of  their  strenuosity, 

They  gazed  with  mixed  emotions  upon  me. 

Well,  my  advice  to  you  is,  Face  the  creatures, 
Or  spot  them  sideways  with  your  weather  eye, 
Just  to  keep  tab  on  their  expansive  features ; 
It  is  n't  pleasant  when  you  're  stepping  high 
To  catch  a  giraffe  smiling  on  the  sly. 

If  nature  made  you  graceful,  don't  get  gay 
Back-to  before  the  hippopotamus  j 


THE    MENAGERIE  61 

If  meek  and  godly,  find  some  place  to  play 
Besides  right  where  three  mad  hyenas  fuss : 
You  may  hear  language  that  we  won't  discuss. 

If  you  're  a  sweet  thing  in  a  flower-bed  hat, 
Or  her  best  fellow  with  your  tie  tucked  in, 
Don't  squander  love's  bright  springtime  girding  at 
An  old  chimpanzee  with  an  Irish  chin : 
There  may  be  bidden  meaning  in  his  grin. 


THE   GOLDEN  JOURNEY 

ALL  day  he  drowses  by  the  sail 

With  dreams  of  her,  and  all  night  long 

The  broken  waters  are  at  song 

Of  how  she  lingers,  wild  and  pale, 

When  all  the  temple  lights  are  dumb, 

And  weaves  her  spells  to  make  him  come. 

The  wide  sea  traversed,  he  will  stand 
With  straining  eyes,  until  the  shoal 
Green  water  from  the  prow  shall  roll 
Upon  the  yellow  strip  of  sand  — 
Searching  some  fern-hid  tangled  way 
Into  the  forest  old  and  grey. 

Then  he  will  leap  upon  the  shore, 
And  cast  one  look  up  at  the  sun, 
Over  his  loosened  locks  will  run 
The  dawn  breeze,  and  a  bird  will  pour 
Its  rapture  out  to  make  life  seem 
Too  sweet  to  leave  for  such  a  dream. 


THE   GOLDEN  JOURNEY  63 

But  all  the  swifter  will  he  go 
Through  the  pale,  scattered  asphodels, 
Down  mote-hung  dusk  of  olive  dells, 
To  where  the  ancient  basins  throw 
Fleet  threads  of  blue  and  trembling  zones 
Of  gold  upon  the  temple  stones. 

There  noon  keeps  just  a  twilight  trace ; 
Twixt  love  and  hate,  and  death  and  birth, 
No  man  may  choose ;  nor  sobs  nor  mirth 
May  enter  in  that  haunted  place. 
All  day  the  fountain  sphynx  lets  drip 
Slow  drops  of  silence  from  her  lip. 

To  hold  the  porch-roof  slender  girls 
Of  milk-white  marble  stand  arow; 
Doubt  never  blurs  a  single  brow, 
And  never  the  noon's  faintness  curls 
From  their  expectant  hush  of  pride 
The  lips  the  god  has  glorified. 

But  these  things  he  will  barely  view, 
Or  if  he  stay  to  heed  them,  still 
But  as  the  lark  the  lights  that  spill 
From  out  the  sun  it  soars  unto, 
Where,  past  the  splendors  and  the  heats, 
The  sun's  heart's  self  forever  beats. 


64  THE    GOLDEN   JOURNEY 

For  wide  the  brazen  doors  will  swing 
Soon  as  his  sandals  touch  the  pave; 
The  anxious  light  inside  will  wave 
And  tremble  to  a  lunar  ring 
About  the  form  that  lieth  prone 
Before  the  dreadful  altar-stone. 

She  will  not  look  or  speak  or  stir, 

But  with  drowned  lips  and  cheeks  death-white 

Will  lie  amid  the  pool  of  light, 

Until,  grown  faint  with  thirst  of  her, 

He  shall  bow  down  his  face  and  sink 

Breathless  beneath  the  eddying  brink. 

Then  a  swift  music  will  begin, 
And  as  the  brazen  doors  shut  slow, 
There  will  be  hurrying  to  and  fro, 
And  lights  and  calls  and  silver  din, 
While  through  the  star-freaked  swirl  of  air 
The  god's  sweet  cruel  eyes  will  stare. 


HEART'S  WILD-FLOWER 

TO-NIGHT  her  lids  shall  lift  again,  slow,  soft,  with 

vague  desire, 
And  lay  about  my  breast  and  brain  their  hush  of 

spirit  fire, 
And  I  shall  take  the  sweet  of  pain  as  the  laborer 

his  hire. 

And  though  no  word  shall  e'er  be  said  to  ease  the 

ghostly  sting, 
And  though  our  hearts,  unhoused,  unfed,  must 

still  go  wandering, 
My  sign  is  set  upon  her  head  while  stars  do  meet 

and  sing. 

Not  such  a  sign  as  women  wear  who  make  their 
foreheads  tame 

With  life's  long  tolerance,  and  bear  love's  sweet 
est,  humblest  name, 

Nor  such  as  passion  eateth  bare  with  its  crown 
of  tears  and  flame. 

Nor  such  a  sign  as  happy  friend  sets  on  his 
friend's  dear  brow 


66  HEART'S    WILD-FLOWER 

When  meadow-pipings  break  and  blend  to  a  key 

of  autumn  woe, 
And  the  woodland  says  playtime  's  at  end,  best 

unclasp  hands  and  go. 

But  where  she  strays,  through  blight  or  blooth, 
one  fadeless  flower  she  wears, 

A  little  gift  God  gave  my  youth,  —  whose  petals 
dim  were  fears, 

Awes,  adorations,  songs  of  ruth,  hesitancies,  and 
tears. 

O  heart  of  mine,  with  all  thy  powers  of  white 

beatitude, 
What   are   the   dearest   of   God's  dowers  to  the 

children  of  his  blood  ? 
How  blow  the   shy,  shy  wilding  flowers  in   the 

hollows  of  his  wood  ? 


HARMONICS 

THIS  string  upon  my  harp  was  best  beloved : 
I  thought  I  knew  its  secrets  through  and  through  ; 
Till  an  old  man,  whose  young  eyes  lightened  blue 
'Neath  his  white  hair,  bent  over  me  and  moved 
His  ringers  up  and  down,  and  broke  the  wire 
To  such  a  laddered  music,  rung  on  rung, 
As  from  the  patriarch's  pillow  skyward  sprung 
Crowded  with  wide-flung  wings  and  feet  of  fire. 

O  vibrant  heart  !  so  metely  tuned  and  strung 
That  any  untaught  hand  can  draw  from  thee 
One  clear  gold  note  that  makes  the  tired  years 

young  — 

What  of  the  time  when  Love  had  whispered  me 
Where  slept  thy  nodes,  and  my  hand  pausefully 
Gave  to  the  dim  harmonics  voice  and  tongue  ? 


ON  THE   RIVER 

THE  faint  stars  wake  and  wonder, 
Fade  and  find  heart  anew ; 
Above  us  and  far  under 
Sphereth  the  watchful  blue. 

Silent  she  sits,  outbending, 
A  wild  pathetic  grace, 
A  beauty  strange,  heart-rending, 
Upon  her  hair  and  face. 

O  spirit  cries  that  sever 
The  cricket's  level  drone  ! 
O  to  give  o'er  endeavor 
And  let  love  have  its  own  ! 

Within  the  mirrored  bushes 
There  wakes  a  little  stir ; 
The  white-throat  moves,  and  hushes 
Her  nestlings  under  her. 


ON   THE   RIVER  69 

Beneath,  the  lustrous  river, 
The  watchful  sky  o'erhead. 
God,  God,  that  Thou  should'st  ever 
Poison  thy  children's  bread! 


THE   BRACELET   OF   GRASS 

THE  opal  heart  of  afternoon 
Was  clouding  on  to  throbs  of  storm, 
Ashen  within  the  ardent  west 
The  lips  of  thunder  muttered  harm, 
And  as  a  bubble  like  to  break 
Hung  heaven's  trembling  amethyst, 
When  with  the  sedge-grass  by  the  lake 
I  braceleted  her  wrist. 

And  when  the  ribbon  grass  was  tied, 
Sad  with  the  happiness  we  planned, 
Palm  linked  in  palm  we  stood  awhile 
And  watched  the  raindrops  dot  the  sand  ; 
Until  the  anger  of  the  breeze 
Chid  all  the  lake's  bright  breathing  down, 
And  ravished  all  the  radiancies 
From  her  deep  eyes  of  brown. 

We  gazed  from  shelter  on  the  storm, 
And  through  our  hearts  swept  ghostly  pain 
To  see  the  shards  of  day  sweep  past, 
Broken,  and  none  might  mend  again. 


THE   BRACELET   OF   GRASS  71 

Broken,  that  none  shall  ever  mend ; 
Loosened,  that  none  shall  ever  tie. 
O  the  wind  and  the  wind,  will  it  never  end  ? 
O  the  sweeping  past  of  the  ruined  sky !  A 


THE  DEPARTURE 

i 

I  SAT  beside  the  glassy  evening  sea, 
One  foot  upon  the  thin  horn  of  my  lyre, 
And  all  its  strings  of  laughter  and  desire 
Crushed  in  the  rank  wet  grasses  heedlessly ; 
Nor  did  my  dull  eyes  care  to  question  how 
The  boat  close  by  had  spread  its  saffron  sails, 
Nor  what  might  mean  the  coffers  and  the  bales, 
And  streaks  of  new  wine  on  the  gilded  prow. 
Neither  was  wonder  in  me  when  I  saw 
Fair  women  step  therein,  though  they  were  fair 
Even  to  adoration  and  to  awe, 
And  in  the  gracious  fillets  of  their  hair 
Were  blossoms  from  a  garden  I  had  known, 
Sweet  mornings  ere  the  apple  buds  were  blown. 

n 

One  gazed  steadfast  into  the  dying  west 
With  lips  apart  to  greet  the  evening  star; 
And  one  with  eyes  that  caught  the  strife  and  jar 
Of  the  sea's  heart,  followed  the  sunward  breast 


THE   DEPARTURE  73 

Of  a  lone  gull ;  from  a  slow  harp  one  drew 

Blind  music  like  a  laugh  or  like  a  wail ; 

And  in  the  uncertain  shadow  of  the  sail 

One  wove  a  crown  of  berries  and  of  yew. 

Yet  even  as  I  said  with  dull  desire, 

u  All  these  were  mine,  and  one  was  mine  indeed," 

The  smoky  music  burst  into  a  fire, 

And  I  was  left  alone  in  my  great  need, 

One  foot  upon  the  thin  horn  of  my  lyre 

And  all  its  strings  crushed  in  the  dripping  weed. 


FADED   PICTURES 

ONLY  two  patient  eyes  to  stare 

Out  of  the  canvas.     All  the  rest  — 

The  warm  green  gown,  the  small  hands  pressed 

Light  in  the  lap,  the  braided  hair 

That  must  have  made  the  sweet  low  brow 
So  earnest,  centuries  ago, 
When  some  one  saw  it  change  and  glow  — 
All  faded !     Just  the  eyes  burn  now. 

I  dare  say  people  pass  and  pass 
Before  the  blistered  little  frame, 
And  dingy  work  without  a  name 
Stuck  in  behind  its  square  of  glass. 

But  I,  well,  I  left  Raphael 
Just  to  come  drink  these  eyes  of  hers, 
To  think  away  the  stains  and  blurs 
And  make  all  new  again  and  well. 

Only,  for  tears  my  head  will  bow, 
Because  there  on  my  heart's  last  wall, 
Scarce  one  tint  left  to  tell  it  all, 
A  picture  keeps  its  eyes,  somehow. 


A   GREY  DAY 

GREY  drizzling  mists  the  moorlands  drape, 

Rain  whitens  the  dead  sea, 

From  headland  dim  to  sullen  cape 

Grey  sails  creep  wearily. 

I  know  not  how  that  merchantman 

Has  found  the  heart ;  but  't  is  her  plan 

Seaward  her  endless  course  to  shape. 

Unreal  as  insects  that  appall 
A  drunkard's  peevish  brain, 
O'er  the  grey  deep  the  dories  crawl, 
Four-legged,  with  rowers  twain  : 
Midgets  and  minims  of  the  earth, 
Across  old  ocean's  vasty  girth 
Toiling  —  heroic,  comical  ! 

I  wonder  how  that  merchant's  crew 

Have  ever  found  the  will  ! 

I  wonder  what  the  fishers  do 

To  keep  them  toiling  still ! 

I  wonder  how  the  heart  of  man 

Has  patience  to  live  out  its  span, 

Or  wait  until  its  dreams  come  true. 


THE   RIDE   BACK 

Before  the  coming  of  the  dark,  he  dreamed 
An  old-world  faded  story  :  of  a  knight, 
Much  like  in  need  to  him,  who  was  no  knight ! 
And  of  a  road,  much  like  the  road  his  soul 
Groped  over,  desperate  to  meet  Her  soul. 
Beside  the  bed  Death  waited.     And  he  dreamed. 

His  limbs  were  heavy  from  the  fight, 
His  mail  was  dark  with  dust  and  blood  ; 
On  his  good  horse  they  bound  him  tight, 
And  on  his  breast  they  bound  the  rood 
To  help  him  in  the  ride  that  night. 

When  he  crashed  through  the  wood's  wet  rim, 
About  the  dabbled  reeds  a  breeze 
Went  moaning  broken  words  and  dim ; 
The  haggard  shapes  of  twilight  trees 
Caught  with  their  scrawny  hands  at  him. 

Between  the  doubtful  aisles  of  day 
Strange  folk  and  lamentable  stood 


THE   RIDE   BACK 

To  maze  and  beckon  him  astray, 

But  through  the  grey  wrath  of  the  wood 

He  held  right  on  his  bitter  way. 

When  he  came  where  the  trees  were  thin, 
The  moon  sat  waiting  there  to  see ; 
On  her  worn  palm  she  laid  her  chin, 
And  laughed  awhile  in  sober  glee 
To  think  how  strong  this  knight  had  been. 

When  he  rode  past  the  pallid  lake, 
The  withered  yellow  stems  of  flags 
Stood  breast-high  for  his  horse  to  break; 
Lewd  as  the  palsied  lips  of  hags 
The  petals  in  the  moon  did  shake. 

When  he  came  by  the  mountain  wall, 
The  snow  upon  the  heights  looked  down 
And  said,  "  The  sight  is  pitiful. 
The  nostrils  of  his  steed  are  brown 
With  frozen  blood ;  and  he  will  fall." 

The  iron  passes  of  the  hills 
With  question  were  importunate ; 
And,  but  the  sharp-tongued  icy  rills 
Had  grown  for  once  compassionate, 
The  spiteful  shades  had  had  their  wills. 


78  THE   RIDE   BACK 

Just  when  the  ache  in  breast  and  brain 
And  the  frost  smiting  at  his  face 
Had  sealed  his  spirit  up  with  pain, 
He  came  out  in  a  better  place, 
And  morning  lay  across  the  plain. 

He  saw  the  wet  snails  crawl  and  cling 
On  fern-stalks  where  the  rime  had  run, 
The  careless  birds  went  wing  and  wing, 
And  in  the  low  smile  of  the  sun 
Life  seemed  almost  a  pleasant  thing. 

Right  on  the  panting  charger  swung 
Through  the  bright  depths  of  quiet  grass  ; 
The  knight's  lips  moved  as  if  they  sung, 
And  through  the  peace  there  came  to  pass 
The  flattery  of  lute  and  tongue. 

From  the  mid-flowering  of  the  mead 
There  swelled  a  sob  of  minstrelsy, 
Faint  sackbuts  and  the  dreamy  reed, 
And  plaintive  lips  of  maids  thereby, 
And  songs  blown  out  like  thistle  seed. 

Forth  from  her  maidens  came  the  bride, 
And  as  his  loosened  rein  fell  slack 


THE    RIDE   BACK  79 

He  muttered,  "  In  their  throats  they  lied 
Who  said  that  I  should  ne'er  win  back 
To  kiss  her  lips  before  I  died !  " 


SONG-FLOWER   AND   POPPY 


IN    NEW    YORK 

HE  plays  the  deuce  with  my  writing  time, 
For  the  penny  my  sixth-floor  neighbor  throws ; 
He  finds  me  proud  of  my  pondered  rhyme, 
And  he  leaves  me  —  well,  God  knows 
It  takes  the  shine  from  a  tunester's  line 
When  a  little  mate  of  the  deathless  Nine 
Pipes  up  under  your  nose  ! 

For  listen,  there  is  his  voice  again, 

Wistful  and  clear  and  piercing  sweet. 

Where  did  the  boy  find  such  a  strain 

To  make  a  dead  heart  beat  ? 

And  how  in  the  name  of  care  can  he  bear 

To  jet  such  a  fountain  into  the  air 

In  this  gray  gulch  of  a  street  ? 

Tuscan  slopes  or  the  Piedmontese  ? 
Umbria  under  the  Apennine  ? 


SONG-FLOWER   AND    POPPY  81 

South,  where  the  terraced  lemon-trees 
Round  rich  Sorrento  shine  ? 
Venice  moon  on  the  smooth  lagoon  ?  — 
Where  have  I  heard  that  aching  tune, 
That  boyish  throat  divine  ? 

Beyond  my  roofs  and  chimney  pots 
A  rag  of  sunset  crumbles  gray  ; 
Below,  fierce  radiance  hangs  in  clots 
O'er  the  streams  that  never  stay. 
Shrill  and  high,  newsboys  cry 
The  worst  of  the  city's  infamy 
For  one  more  sordid  day. 

But  my  desire  has  taken  sail 

For  lands  beyond,  soft-horizoned  : 

Down  languorous  leagues  I  hold  the  trail, 

From  Marmalada,  steeply  throned 

Above  high  pastures  washed  with  light, 

Where  dolomite  by  dolomite 

Looms  sheer  and  spectral-coned, 

To  purple  vineyards  looking  south 
On  reaches  of  the  still  Tyrrhene ; 
Virgilian  headlands,  and  the  mouth 
Of  Tiber,  where  that  ship  put  in 
To  take  the  dead  men  home  to  God, 


82  SONG-FLOWER    AND    POPPY 

Whereof  Casella  told  the  mode 
To  the  great  Florentine. 

Up  stairways  blue  with  flowering  weed 

I  climb  to  hill-hung  Bergamo  ; 

All  day  I  watch  the  thunder  breed 

Golden  above  the  springs  of  Po, 

Till  the  voice  makes  sure  its  wavering  lure, 

And  by  Assisi's  portals  pure 

I  stand,  with  heart  bent  low. 

O  hear,  how  it  blooms  in  the  blear  dayfall, 

That  flower  of  passionate  wistful  song  ! 

How  it  blows  like  a  rose  by  the  iron  wall 

Of  the  city  loud  and  strong. 

How  it  cries  "  Nay,  nay  "  to  the  worldling's  way, 

To   the    heart's    clear  dream    how   it    whispers, 

"Yea; 
Time  comes,  though  the  time  is  long." 

Beyond  my  roofs  and  chimney  piles 
Sunset  crumbles,  ragged,  dire  ; 
The  roaring  street  is  hung  for  miles 
With  fierce  electric  fire. 
Shrill  and  high,  newsboys  cry 
The  gross  of  the  planet's  destiny 
Through  one  more  sullen  gyre. 


SONG-FLOWER   AND    POPPY  83 

Stolidly  the  town  flings  down 
Its  lust  by  day  for  its  nightly  lust ; 
Who  does  his  given  stint,  'tis  known, 
Shall  have  his  mug  and  crust.  — 
Too  base  of  mood,  too  harsh  of  blood, 
Too  stout  to  seize  the  grosser  good, 
Too  hungry  after  dust  ! 

O  hark  !  how  it  blooms  in  the  falling  dark, 

That  flower  of  mystical  yearning  song  : 

Sad  as  a  hermit  thrush,  as  a  lark 

Uplifted,  glad,  and  strong. 

Heart,  we  have  chosen  the  better  part ! 

Save  sacred  love  and  sacred  art 

Nothing  is  good  for  long. 


II 

AT   ASSISI 

Before  St.  Francis*  burg  I  wait, 
Frozen  in  spirit,  faint  with  dread ; 
His  presence  stands  within  the  gate, 
Mild  splendor  rings  his  head. 
Gently  he  seems  to  welcome  me : 
Knows  he  not  I  am  quick,  and  he 
Is  dead,  and  priest  of  the  dead  ? 

I  turn  away  from  the  gray  church  pile ; 

I  dare  not  enter,  thus  undone  : 

Here  in  the  roadside  grass  awhile 

I  will  lie  and  watch  for  the  sun. 

Too  purged  of  earth's  good  glee  and  strife, 

Too  drained  of  the  honied  lusts  of  life, 

Was  the  peace  these  old  saints  won  ! 

And  lo  !  how  the  laughing  earth  says  no 
To  the  fear  that  mastered  me ; 
To  the  blood  that  aches  and  clamors  so 
How  it  whispers  "  Verily." 


SONG-FLOWER  AND   POPPY  85 

Here  by  my  side,  marvelous-dyed, 

Bold  stray-away  from  the  courts  of  pride, 

A  poppy-bell  flaunts  free. 

St.  Francis  sleeps  upon  his  hill, 

And  a  poppy  flower  laughs  down  his  creed ; 

Triumphant  light  her  petals  spill, 

His  shrines  are  dim  indeed. 

Men  build  and  plan,  but  the  soul  of  man, 

Coming  with  haughty  eyes  to  scan, 

Feels  richer,  wilder  need. 

How  long,  old  builder  Time,  wilt  bide 

Till  at  thy  thrilling  word 

Life's  crimson  pride  shall  have  to  bride 

The  spirit's  white  accord, 

Within  that  gate  of  good  estate 

Which  thou  must  build  us  soon  or  late, 

Hoar  workman  of  the  Lord  ? 


HOW   THE    MEAD-SLAVE    WAS    SET 
FREE 

NAY,  move  not !     Sit  just  as  you  are, 
Under  the  carved  wings  of  the  chair. 
The  hearth-glow  sifting  through  your  hair 
Turns  every  dim  pearl  to  a  star 
Dawn-drowned  in  floods  of  brightening  air. 

I  have  been  thinking  of  that  night 
When  all  the  wide  hall  burst  to  blaze 
With  spears  caught  up,  thrust  fifty  ways 
To  find  my  throat,  while  I  lay  white 
And  sick  with  joy,  to  think  the  days 

I  dragged  out  in  your  hateful  North  — 
A  slave,  constrained  at  banquet's  need 
To  fill  the  black  bull's  horns  with  mead 
For  drunken  sea-thieves  —  were  henceforth 
Cast  from  me  as  a  poison  weed, 

While  Death  thrust  roses  in  my  hands  ! 
But  you,  who  knew  the  flowers  he  had 
Were  no  such  roses  ripe  and  glad 


HOW  THE  MEAD-SLAVE  WAS  SET  FREE    87 

As  nod  in  my  far  southern  lands, 
But  pallid  things  to  make  men  sad, 

Put  back  the  spears  with  one  calm  hand, 
Raised  on  your  knee  my  wondering  head, 
Wiped  off  the  trickling  drops  of  red 
From  my  torn  forehead  with  a  strand 
Of  your  bright  loosened  hair,  and  said : 

u  Sea-rovers !  would  you  kill  a  skald  ? 
This  boy  has  hearkened  Odin  sing 
Unto  the  clang  and  winnowing 
Of  raven's  wings.     His  heart  is  thralled 
To  music,  as  to  some  strong  king ; 

"  And  this  great  thraldom  works  disdain 
Of  lesser  serving.     Once  release 
These  bonds  he  bears,  and  he  may  please 
To  give  you  guerdon  sweet  as  rain 
To  sailors  calmed  in  thirsty  seas." 

Then,  having  soothed  their  rage  to  rest, 
You  led  me  to  old  Skagi's  throne, 
Where  yellow  gold  rims  in  the  stone ; 
And  in  my  arms,  against  my  breast, 
Thrust  his  great  harp  of  walrus  bone. 


88    HOW  THE  MEAD-SLAVE  WAS  SET  FREE 

How  they  came  crowding,  tunes  on  tunes  ! 
How  good  it  was  to  touch  the  strings 
And  feel  them  thrill  like  happy  things 
That  flutter  from  the  gray  cocoons 
On  hedge  rows,  in  your  gradual  springs ! 

All  grew  a  blur  before  my  sight, 
As  when  the  stealthy  white  fog  slips 
At  noonday  on  the  staggering  ships ; 
I  saw  one  single  spot  of  light, 
Your  white  face,  with  its  eager  lips  — 

And  so  I  sang  to  that.     O  thou 
Who  liftedst  me  from  out  my  shame  ! 
Wert  thou  content  when  Skagi  came, 
Put  his  own  chaplet  on  my  brow, 
And  bent  and  kissed  his  own  harp-frame  ? 


A  DIALOGUE   IN   PURGATORY 

Pot  disse  un  altro  ....*'  lo  son  Buonconte  : 
Giovanna  o  altri  non  ha  di  me  cura  ; 
Per  cV  to  *vo  tra  castor  con  bassa  fronted* 

Seguito  il  terzo  spirito  al  secondo, 
"  Ricorditi  di  me,  che  son  la  Pi  a; 
Siena  mi  fe,  disfecemi  Maremma. 
•Salsi  colui  che  inannellata  pria 
Disposata  n?  avea  colla  sua  gemma." 

PURGATOMO,  CANTO  V. 


BUONCONTE 

SISTER,  the  sun  has  ceased  to  shine  5 
By  companies  of  twain  and  trine 
Stars  gather ;  from  the  sea 
The  moon  comes  momently. 

On  all  the  roads  that  ring  our  hill 
The  sighing  and  the  hymns  are  still : 
It  is  our  time  to  gain 
Strength  for  to-morrow's  pain. 


90        A   DIALOGUE   IN   PURGATORY 

Yet  still  your  eyes  are  wholly  bent 
Upon  the  way  that  Virgil  went, 
Following  Bordello's  sign, 
With  the  dark  Florentine. 

Night  now  has  barred  their  upward  track  : 
There  where  the  mountain-side  folds  back 
And  in  the  Vale  of  Flowers 
The  Princes  count  their  hours 

Those  three  friends  sit  in  the  clear  starlight 
With  the  green-clad  angels  left  and  right, — 
Soul  made  by  wakeful  soul 
More  earnest  for  the  goal. 

So  let  us,  sister,  though  our  place 
Is  barren  of  that  Valley's  grace, 
Sit  hand  in  hand,  till  we 
Seem  rich  as  those  friends  be. 

II 

LA    PIA 

Brother,  'twere  sweet  your  hand  to  feel 
In  mine ;  it  would  a  little  heal 
The  shame  that  makes  me  poor, 
And  dumb  at  the  heart's  core. 


A   DIALOGUE   IN   PURGATORY        91 

But  where  our  spirits  felt  Love's  dearth, 
Down  on  the  green  and  pleasant  earth, 
Remains  the  fleshly  shell, 
Love's  garment  tangible. 

So  now  our  hands  have  naught  to  say : 
Heart  unto  heart  some  other  way 
Must  utter  forth  its  pain, 
Must  glee  or  comfort  gain. 

Ah,  no !     For  souls  like  you  and  me 
Some  comfort  waits,  but  never  glee : 
Not  yours  the  young  men's  singing 
In  Heaven,  at  the  bride-bringing ; 

Not  mine,  beside  God's  living  waters, 
Dance  of  the  marriageable  daughters, 
The  laughter  and  the  ease 
Beneath  His  summer  trees. 


in 

BUONCONTE 

In  fair  Arezzo's  halls  and  bowers 
My  Giovanna  speeds  her  hours 
Delicately,  nor  cares 
To  shorten  by  her  prayers 


92        A   DIALOGUE   IN   PURGATORY 

My  days  upon  this  mount  of  ruth : 

If  those  who  come  from  earth  speak  sooth. 

Though  still  I  call  and  call, 

She  does  not  heed  at  all. 

And  if  aright  your  words  I  read 
At  Dante's  passing,  he  you  wed 
Dipped  from  the  drains  of  Hell 
The  marriage  hydromel. 

O  therefore,  while  the  moon  intense 
Holds  yonder  dreaming  sea  suspense, 
And  round  the  shadowy  coasts 
Gather  the  wistful  ghosts, 

Let  us  sit  quiet  all  the  night, 
And  wonder,  wonder  on  the  light 
Worn  by  those  spirits  fair 
Whom  Love  has  not  left  bare. 

IV 
LA    PIA 

Even  as  theirs,  the  chance  was  mine 
To  meet  and  mate  beneath  Love's  sign, 
To  feel  in  soul  and  sense 
The  solemn  influence 


A   DIALOGUE   IN   PURGATORY        93 

Which,  breathed  upon  a  man  or  maid, 
Maketh  forever  unafraid, 
Though  life  with  death  unite 
That  spirit  to  affright,  — 

Which  lifts  the  changed  heart  high  up, 
As  the  priest  lifts  the  changed  cup, 
Boldens  the  feet  to  pace 
Before  God's  proving  face. 

0  just  a  thought  beyond  the  blue 

The  wings  of  the  dove  yearned  down  and  through  ! 
Even  now  I  hear  and  hear 
How  near  they  were,  how  near ! 

1  murmur  not.     Rightly  disgraced, 
The  weak  hand  stretched  abroad  in  haste 
For  gifts  barely  allowed 

The  tacit,  strong,  and  proud. 

But  therefore  was  I  so  intent 

To  watch  where  Dante  onward  went 

With  the  Roman  spirit  pure 

And  the  grave  troubadour, 

Because  my  mind  was  busy  then 

With  the  loves  that  wait  those  gentle  men : 


94        A   DIALOGUE   IN    PURGATORY 

Cunizza  one;   and  one 
Bice,  above  the  sun  ; 

And  for  the  other,  more  and  less 
Than  woman's  near-felt  tenderness, 
A  million  voices  dim 
Praising  him,  praising  him. 

v 

BUONCONTE 

The  waves  that  wash  this  mountain's  base 
Were  crimson  in  the  sun's  low  rays, 
When,  singing  high  and  fast, 
An  angel  downward  passed, 

To  bid  some  patient  soul  arise 
And  make  it  fair  for  Paradise; 
And  upward,  so  attended, 
That  soul  its  journey  wended; 

Yet  you,  who  in  these  lower  rings 
Wait  for  the  coming  of  such  wings, 
Turned  not  your  eyes  to  view 
Whether  they  came  for  you, 

But  watched,  but  watched  great  Virgil  stayed 
Greeting  Bordello's  couchant  shade, 


A   DIALOGUE   IN    PURGATORY        95 

Which  to  salute  him  rose 
Like  lion  from  its  pose ; 

While  humbly  by  those  lords  of  song 
Stood  he  whose  living  limbs  are  strong 
To  mount  where  Mary's  bliss 
Is  shed  on  Beatrice. 

On  him  your  gaze  was  fastened,  more 
Than  on  those  great  names  Mantua  bore  ; 
Your  eyes  hold  the  distress 
Still,  of  that  wistfulness. 

Yea,  fit  he  seemed  much  love  to  rouse  ! 
His  pilgrim  lips  and  iron  brows 
Grew  like  a  woman's,  dim, 
While  you  held  speech  with  him  ; 

And  troubled  came  his  mortal  breath 
The  while  I  told  him  of  my  death  ; 
His  looks  were  changed  and  wan 
When  Virgil  led  him  on. 

VI 

LA  PIA 

E'er  since  Casella  came  this  morn, 
Newly  o'er  yonder  ocean  borne, 


96        A   DIALOGUE   IN    PURGATORY 

Bound  upward  for  the  choir 
Who  purge  themselves  in  fire, 

And  from  that  meinie  he  was  of 
Stayed  backward  at  my  cry  of  love, 
To  speak  awhile  with  me 
Of  life  and  Tuscany, 

And,  parting,  told  us  how  e'er  day 
Was  done,  Dante  would  come  this  way, 
With  mortal  feet,  to  find 
His  sweetheart,  sky-enshrined, — 

E'er  since  Casella  spoke  such  news 
My  heart  has  lain  in  a  golden  muse, 
Picturing  him  and  her, 
What  starry  ones  they  were. 

And  now  the  moon  sheds  its  compassion 
O'er  the  hushed  mount,  I  try  to  fashion 
The  manner  of  their  meeting, 
Their  few  first  words  of  greeting. 

O  well  for  them,  with  clasped  hands, 
Unshamed  amid  the  heavenly  bands  ! 
They  hear  no  pitying  pair 
Of  old-time  lovers  there 


A   DIALOGUE   IN    PURGATORY        97 

Look  down  and  say  in  an  undertone, 
"  This  latest-come,  who  comes  alone, 
Was  still  alone  on  earth, 
And  lonely  from  his  birth." 

Nor  feel  a  sudden  whisper  mar 
God's  weather,  "  Dost  thou  see  the  scar 
That  spirit  hideth  so  ? 
Who  dealt  her  such  a  blow 

"  That  God  can  hardly  wipe  it  out  ? " 
And  answer,  "  She  gave  love,  no  doubt, 
To  one  who  saw  not  fit 
To  set  much  store  by  it." 


THE   DAGUERREOTYPE 

THIS,  then,  is  she, 

My  mother  as  she  looked  at  seventeen, 
When    she    first    met    my   father.       Young    in 
credibly, 

Younger  than  spring,  without  the  faintest  trace 
Of  disappointment,  weariness,  or  tean 
Upon  the  childlike  earnestness  and  grace 
Of  the  waiting  face. 
These  close-wound  ropes  of  pearl 
(Or  common  beads  made  precious  by  their  use) 
Seem  heavy  for  so  slight  a  throat  to  wear; 
But  the  low  bodice  leaves  the  shoulders  bare 
And  half  the  glad  swell  of  the  breast,  for  news 
That   now  the  woman  stirs  within  the  girl. 
And  yet, 

Even  so,  the  loops  and  globes 
Of  beaten  gold 
And  jet 

Hung,  in  the  stately  way  of  old, 
From  the  ears'  drooping  lobes 
On  festivals  and  Lord's-day  of  the  week, 
Show  all  too  matron-sober  for  the  cheek, — 


THE   DAGUERREOTYPE  99 

Which,  now  I  look  again,  is  perfect  child, 
Or  no  —  or  no  —  't  is  girlhood's  very  self, 
Moulded  by  some  deep,  mischief-ridden  elf 
So  meek,  so  maiden  mild, 
But  startling  the  close  gazer  with  the  sense 
Of  passions  forest-shy  and  forest-wild, 
And  delicate  delirious  merriments. 

As  a  moth  beats  sidewise 

And  up  and  over,  and  tries 

To  skirt  the  irresistible  lure 

Of  the  flame  that  has  him  sure, 

My  spirit,  that  is  none  too  strong  to-day, 

Flutters  and  makes  delay,  — 

Pausing  to  wonder  on  the  perfect  lips, 

Lifting  to  muse  upon  the  low-drawn  hair 

And  each  hid  radiance  there, 

But  powerless  to  stem  the  tide-race  bright, 

The  vehement  peace  which  drifts  it  toward  the 

light 

Where  soon  —  ah,  now,  with  cries 
Of  grief  and  giving-up  unto  its  gain 
It  shrinks  no  longer  nor  denies, 
But  dips 

Hurriedly  home  to  the  exquisite  heart  of  pain,  — 
And  all  is  well,  for  I  have  seen  them  plain, 
The  unforgettable,  the  unforgotten  eyes  ! 


ioo  THE   DAGUERREOTYPE 

Across  the  blinding  gush  of  these  good  tears 
They  shine  as  in  the  sweet  and  heavy  years 
When  by  her  bed  and  chair 
We  children  gathered  jealously  to  share 
The  sunlit  aura  breathing  myrrh  and  thyme, 
Where  the  sore-stricken  body  made  a  clime 
Gentler  than  May  and  pleasanter  than  rhyme, 
Holier  and  more  mystical  than  prayer. 

God,  how  thy  ways  are  strange ! 

That  this  should  be,  even  this, 

The  patient  head 

Which  suffered  years  ago  the  dreary  change  ! 

That  these  so  dewy  lips  should  be  the  same 

As  those  I  stooped  to  kiss 

And  heard  my  harrowing  half-spoken  name, 

A  little  ere  the  one  who  bowed  above  her, 

Our  father  and  her  very  constant  lover, 

Rose  stoical,  and  we  knew  that  she  was  dead. 

Then  I,  who  could  not  understand  or  share 

His  antique  nobleness, 

Being  unapt  to  bear 

The  insults  which  time  flings  us  for  our  proof, 

Fled  from  the  horrible  roof 

Into  the  alien  sunshine  merciless, 

The  shrill  satiric  fields  ghastly  with  day, 

Raging  to  front  God  in  his  pride  of  sway 


THE   DAGUERREOTYPE  101 

And  hurl  across  the  lifted  swords  of  fate 

That  ringed  Him  where  He  sat 

My  puny  gage  of  scorn  and  desolate  hate 

Which  somehow  should  undo  Him,  after  all  ! 

That  this  girl  face,  expectant,  virginal, 

Which  gazes  out  at  me 

Boon  as  a  sweetheart,  as  if  nothing  loth 

(Save  for  the  eyes,  with  other  presage  stored) 

To  pledge  me  troth, 

And  in  the  kingdom  where  the  heart  is  lord 

Take  sail  on  the  terrible  gladness  of  the  deep 

Whose  winds  the  gray  Norns  keep,  — 

That  this  should  be  indeed 

The  flesh  which  caught  my  soul,  a  flying  seed, 

Out  of  the  to  and  fro 

Of  scattering  hands  where  the  seedsman  Mage, 

Stooping  from  star  to  star  and  age  to  age 

Sings  as  he  sows  ! 

That  underneath  this  breast 

Nine  moons  I  fed 

Deep  of  divine  unrest, 

While  over  and  over  in  the  dark  she  said, 

"  Blessed !  but  not  as  happier  children  blessed  " — 

That  this  should  be 

Even  she.  .  .  . 

God,  how  with  time  and  change 

Thou  makest  thy  footsteps  strange  ! 


102  THE   DAGUERREOTYPE 

Ah,  now  I  know 

They  play  upon  me,  and  it  is  not  so. 

Why,  't  is  a  girl  I  never  saw  before, 

A  little  thing  to  flatter  and  make  weep, 

To  tease  until  her  heart  is  sore, 

Then  kiss  and  clear  the  score ; 

A  gypsy  run-the-fields, 

A  little  liberal  daughter  of  the  earth, 

Good  for  what  hour  of  truancy  and  mirth 

The  careless  season  yields 

Hither-side  the  flood  o'  the  year  and  yonder  of 

the  neap  ; 
Then  thank  you,  thanks  again,  and  twenty  light 

good-byes.  — 
O  shrined  above  the  skies, 
Frown  not,  clear  brow, 
Darken  not,  holy  eyes  ! 
Thou  knowest  well  I  know  that  it  is  thou! 
Only  to  save  me  from  such  memories 
As  would  unman  me  quite, 
Here  in  this  web  of  strangeness  caught 
And  prey  to  troubled  thought 
Do  I  devise 

These  foolish  shifts  and  slight ; 
Only  to  shield  me  from  the  afflicting  sense 
Of  some  waste  influence 

Which  from  this  morning  face  and  lustrous  hair 
Breathes  on  me  sudden  ruin  and  despair. 


THE   DAGUERREOTYPE  103 

In  any  other  guise, 

With  any  but  this  girlish  depth  of  gaze, 

Your  coming  had  not  so  unsealed  and  poured 

The  dusty  amphoras  where  I  had  stored 

The  drippings  of  the  winepress  of  my  days. 

I  think  these  eyes  foresee, 

Now  in  their  unawakened  virgin  time, 

Their  mother's  pride  in  me, 

And  dream  even  now,  unconsciously, 

Upon  each  soaring  peak  and  sky-hung  lea 

You  pictured  I  should  climb. 

Broken  premonitions  come, 

Shapes,  gestures  visionary, 

Not  as  once  to  maiden  Mary 

The  manifest  angel  with  fresh  lilies  came 

Intelligibly  calling  her  by  name ; 

But  vanishingly,  dumb, 

Thwarted  and  bright  and  wild, 

As  heralding  a  sin-defiled, 

Earth-encumbered,      blood-begotten,     passionate 

man-child, 

Who  yet  should  be  a  trump  of  mighty  call 
Blown  in  the  gates  of  evil  kings 
To  make  them  fall ; 

Who  yet  should  be  a  sword  of  flame  before 
The  soul's  inviolate  door 
To  beat  away  the  clang  of  hellish  wings ; 


104  THE   DAGUERREOTYPE 

Who  yet  should  be  a  lyre 

Of  high  unquenchable  desire 

In  the  day  of  little  things.  — 

Look,  where  the  amphoras, 

The  yield  of  many  days, 

Trod  by  my  hot  soul  from  the  pulp  of  self 

And  set  upon  the  shelf 

In  sullen  pride 

The  Vineyard-master's  tasting  to  abide  — 

O  mother  mine  ! 

Are  these  the  bringings-in,  the  doings  fine, 

Of  him  you  used  to  praise  ? 

Emptied  and  overthrown 

The  jars  lie  strown. 

These,  for  their  flavor  duly  nursed, 

Drip  from  the  stopples  vinegar  accursed ; 

These,  I  thought  honied  to  the  very  seal, 

Dry,  dry,  —  a  little  acid  meal, 

A  pinch  of  mouldy  dust, 

Sole  leavings  of  the  amber- mantling  must; 

These,  rude  to  look  upon, 

But  flasking  up  the  liquor  dearest  won, 

Through  sacred  hours  and  hard, 

With   watching   and  with    wrestlings    and   with 

grief, 

Even  of  these,  of  these  in  chief, 
The  stale  breath  sickens,  reeking  from  the  shard. 


THE   DAGUERREOTYPE  105 

Nothing    is    left.       Ay,    how    much     less    than 

naught ! 

What  shall  be  said  or  thought 
Of  the  slack  hours  and  waste  imaginings, 
The  cynic  rending  of  the  wings, 
Known  to  that  froward,  that  unreckoning  heart 
Whereof  this  brewage  was  the  precious  part, 
Treasured  and  set  away  with  furtive  boast  ? 
O  dear  and  cruel  ghost, 
Be  merciful,  be  just ! 
See,  I  was  yours  and  I  am  in  the  dust. 
Then  look  not  so,  as  if  all  things  were  well ! 
Take  your  eyes  from  me,  leave  me  to  my  shame, 
Or  else,  if  gaze  they  must, 
Steel    them    with  judgment,    darken    them   with 

blame ; 

But  by  the  ways  of  light  ineffable 
You  bade  me  go  and  I  have  faltered  from, 
By  the  low  waters  moaning  out  of  hell 
Whereto  my  feet  have  come, 
Lay  not  on  me  these  intolerable 
Looks  of  rejoicing  love,  of  pride,  of  happy  trust ! 

Nothing  dismayed  ? 

By  all  I  say  and  all  I  hint  not  made 

Afraid  ? 

O  then,  stay  by  me  !     Let 

These  eyes  afflict  me,  cleanse  me,  keep  me  yeL 


io6  THE    DAGUERREOTYPE 

Brave  eyes  and  true ! 

See  how  the  shriveled  heart,  that  long  has  lain 

Dead  to  delight  and  pain, 

Stirs,  and  begins  again 

To  utter  pleasant  life,  as  if  it  knew 

The  wintry  days  were  through  ; 

As  if  in  its  awakening  boughs  it  heard 

The  quick,  sweet-spoken  bird. 

Strong  eyes  and  brave, 

Inexorable  to  save! 


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LIBRARY,  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  DAVIS 

Book  Slip-50m-12,'64(F772s4)458 


360256 

PS2U27 
Moody,  W.V. 

Gloucester  moors 
and  other  poems. 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF   CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


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